Full Circle
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: After weeks back on the road together, things still aren't quite the same. It's up to the boys to figure out how to fix things. Spoilers up to Swan Song.
1. Sammy, and Not Sammy

**Author's Note: **I'd originally planned a sequel to _The Amulet_, but since subsequent spoilers have rendered that entirely AU... This doesn't follow from it any way. My thanks to Cheryl for the title (as usual), for plenty of encouragement and suggestions, and for talking me out of keeping this to a one-shot.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

**Spoilers:** Up to 5.22

**Summary: **After weeks back on the road together, things still aren't _quite_ the same. It's up to the boys to figure out how to fix things.

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**Chapter 1: Sammy, and Not Sammy**

Two months? Around two months, I think... Give or take a bit. I'm not sure.

Oh, who am I kidding? Eight weeks, three days, five hours and seventeen minutes since I dropped the platter I was loading into the dishwasher, not caring that it broke into about a million pieces, because a very familiar feeling was creeping up my spine. Eight weeks, three days, five hours, sixteen minutes and forty-five seconds since I flung open the front door and threw myself at the man standing on the doorstep with his hand raised about to knock, not even bothering to check if it was really him because _when_ has my Sammy-sense ever been wrong?

Sometimes I really wish I could have stopped time just _then_, and that one minute when Sam practically melted into my arms, his head nestled on my shoulder like he was a kid again, could have gone on forever.

But Winchester luck being what it is... Well.

I think I would never have moved, because it felt so _right_ to be able to hear Sam breathing, because moving would mean talking and talking would mean questions whose answers I wasn't sure I wanted to know, but when Sam stiffened and raised his head I knew Lisa had come out to see what was going on.

I kind of wish now that I'd never let him go when he did that, that I'd just held him tighter until he settled down and then walked him straight to the Impala. Because when Sam lifted his head off my shoulder and met Lisa's eyes, _everything _changed.

I love Lisa – I _really_ do – and I love Ben, but I've never needed angels to tell me that Sam is... well, he's _Sam_. He's the other half of me, and even now when we spend most of the time – not _fighting_, exactly, but not on the best of terms either – I'd still rather be here than anywhere else. I've always known it, and I knew in _that_ one minute that if Sam asked me to pack up and hit the road with him I would.

Sam knew, too, and he didn't ask. He just stepped away, stepped back, as though he thought he was intruding and he was going to make a discreet exit. But he didn't just step away from Lisa, he stepped away from me, from _us_, and although I knew it I couldn't do a thing to stop him.

Sammy stirs suddenly, breaking into my thoughts, and I bend over him to check on his fever. It's still raging, but not badly enough to need a hospital. A few days' rest should fix him.

It makes me feel like the most horrible brother in the world, but now I've started to feel a little more _comfortable_ when he's sick or hurt. It's what I'm used to, stitching and bandaging and cajoling some food into him and feeling him sidle up against me when I sit on his bed. The sidling part doesn't happen now, but the rest of it is the same, and it makes me feel like I know what I'm doing. It makes me feel like he's still my Sammy.

I sigh. You'd think that considering how long it's been since I've seen Lisa and Ben, I'd be agonizing over _them_ instead of missing the brother who is within fifteen feet of me at least twenty hours out of every twenty-four. But when are things _ever_ that simple when Sammy's involved?

It doesn't take much to soothe Sam. I rub his arm and murmur to him – doesn't matter what I say; right now I'm describing the ways to identify a werewolf – and in a few minutes he's sleeping. Not peacefully; Sam never sleeps peacefully now. But he won't talk about it, won't discuss his nightmares, and I've learnt that asking about them is about as effective as trying to run the Impala on chocolate milk.

Yeah, the Impala. She's the one bright spot in all this. I couldn't bear to look at her after... well, _after_... so I kept her in Lisa's garage under a tarp. It was easiest that way. I couldn't drive the Impala with _anyone_ but Sam in the passenger seat – it would've been an insult to his memory – and I could hardly tell Lisa that she had to sit in the back with Ben.

Now she's back. It sort of makes things right again.

We're screwed up, sure. In fact, I didn't realize _how_ badly screwed up we were at first. When we finally hit the road again I hadn't driven the Impala or hunted with Sam for a year. I thought it was just a matter of getting used to being out with my baby and my baby brother, and maybe of them getting used to me again. Score zero for Dean Winchester.

But here's the thing. Lisa's home was Lisa's home, and I loved it there and I was welcome there, but it wasn't my home. _My _home is the Impala on the open road and Sam sitting next to me making a face and muttering about my taste in music or how nobody's used cassette tapes since 1982. And I have the Impala, and I have Sam, and maybe it's not perfect but it's as close to it as I'm going to get.

So, yeah, about Sam. The kid's changed.

Not the kind of change that happened when I was in Hell, and if I weren't still pissed off at God for everything he put us through I'd be down on my knees thanking him for that. There's no demon blood, no temper tantrums, no running off behind my back. He's as cheerful as I could hope for, not nearly as moody as he used to be, far more efficient and practical as a hunter... Damn it, he's _everything_ Dad shouted at him to be and I wished he would be when we were growing up.

And he's not Sammy anymore.

Damn it. Damn it. _Damn it._

I don't know why it's bothering me so much. I was the one who told him to lighten up. I was the one who told him to keep his head in the game and not get distracted and...

_Damn it._ Who'd've thought I'd _miss_ the Sammy Winchester bitchface?

Oh, but it gets worse. I hate myself for it, and I try my hardest to suppress the thought because I remember what Ruby said about Sam not needing a feather to fly, but I even miss the guilt trips. I mean, it's not that I _want_ the kid to start blaming himself for everything that goes wrong on earth again, and I know better than anyone that he's more than paid his dues, but...

Sam stirs again, and I move quickly to rub his back, wondering if he sensed what I was thinking. Sam's seemed more... perceptive... since he came back. Not better at guessing what I'm feeling, because he's always been insufferably good at that, but better at figuring out things he's never been told about.

As Sam settles down, I think back to the day he came back.

When he told me he'd been around for months but he hadn't come to see me, I was furious. I don't think I've been that mad at him _ever_, not when he left for Stanford, not when he lied to me, not when he chose Ruby, not when he broke the last seal. It wasn't a well-intentioned mistake or a bid for freedom this time, it was Sam deliberately, wantonly leaving me to think that he was still in Lucifer's cage. I'd rather have burnt in Hell myself than gone through those months of imagining him there, and he knows it.

And what do I get from Sam? "I'm sorry, Dean."? "I know I hurt you and I'll never do it again."? No, what _I _get is, "Well, I _told _you not to worry about me."

Yeah. My brother, the man who blamed himself for a murder that happened when he was six months old as a consequence of a deal that our mother made ten years before he was born, the man who held himself as responsible for the Apocalypse as though he'd broken all sixty-six seals himself, _that _man told me it was _my_ fault for worrying about him when I was safe and happy – well, _safe_, anyway – at Lisa's house and he was in freaking _Hell_ with two very pissed off archangels.

And the worst of it? He's not even lying. He actually considered coming to see me as soon as he was out, but he decided against it because he thought that if he gave it a few months I'd be normal and happy and carrying quarts of ice-cream to soccer practice.

As soon as I figured that out, I nearly let loose and clocked him one right there.

What stopped me was Lisa. She stepped between us with a very determined expression on her face. I couldn't tell whether she wanted to protect me from Sam or Sam from me or both of us from each other, but whatever it was, it was _wrong_. Sam and I have our problems, but one thing we've learnt is that they're _our_ problems and nobody, however much they may really think they're helping, can be allowed to interfere.

When I looked in Sam's eyes I knew he was thinking the same thing, so we let it drop.

And then we never took it up again.

Sam won't talk about it. Come to that, there are a lot of things Sam won't talk about. He won't even tell me exactly how long he was in the cage; all he says is "long enough". Which, seeing that the kid's a former pre-law student, could mean just about anything.

I miss Sam's talking, too. When I think of all the times I shut him up, all the times I told him not to bother me... If I'd known there would come a day when Sam would be a split-second too late to save a high-school student, and would then tell me he isn't going to waste time worrying about what he can't help and _no_ he damn well _doesn't_ feel guilty about it –

His eyes flicker under closed lids, and I run my hand through his hair.

Lying to me _again_, Sam?

Like _hell_ he doesn't feel guilty. Sam tends to go on about how he hero-worshipped me as a kid and followed me around everywhere and so he knows everything there is to know about me. I'm not denying that he _does_ know me better than anyone else, but he tends to forget that _I _know _him_, too. Considering that he's been watching me since I was eight years old but I've been watching him since the day he was born, I'd say I know him a lot better than he knows me.

Haven't got an argument for that, have you, geek boy?

But maybe that's even worse. A Sam who's feeling miserable but won't come to his big brother is a Sam I never thought could even _exist_. Monsters, demons, rogue angels, Lucifer on the loose, all those things I could at least _try_ to fix. With this I can't even start coming up with a _plan_.

Thing is, I can't even ask Sam what's wrong. It's not like he's not talking to me. It's not even like he's _mad_ at me. He's just too practical, too sensible. I mean, what am I supposed to say? _Sam, I want you to fall to pieces so I can have the satisfaction of holding you together?_ He's in pain and hiding it, sucking it up and soldiering on the way _I_ told him to do, and now that I have what I was willing to do anything to get, I hate it.

Yeah, our lives are really screwed up.

Sam rolls over, deeper in sleep. His hand brushes my knee; I tense, afraid he'll pull away, but instead he curls closer.

I do _not _have tears in my eyes. I mean, what kind of psycho girl _cries_ because his brother moved a half-inch closer to him in his _sleep_? I do _not_ –

Sam's shivering. I curse myself – _should've thought of that, Dean, it's a cold night_ – and cross the room to where I've dumped our bags by the far wall. One of his hoodies should do the job. I open the bag. There's a black one right on top, but I ignore that. That's the one I like to wear when _I'm_ sick – not that I'd ever tell Sam that wearing his hoodie makes me feel better – and since, given our luck, I'm going to come down with this bug as soon as Sam starts recovering, I don't want it to be in the laundry.

It shouldn't be hard to find another, considering how many he has, but somehow they all seem to have wormed their way to the bottom of the bag. I curse and dig deeper, and just as I'm about to give up and put the black one on him, my fingers snag the grey one that's a couple of sizes too big for him – _perfect_ – and I pull it out.

Something else comes out with it. I hear a dull _clunk_ as it falls to the hardwood floor, but with Sam shivering in the bed behind me I don't bother to examine it. I get him awake enough to sit up so I can pull it down over his arms, try not to be too thrilled about the fact that he snuggles into my jacket and makes a tiny noise of protest when I ease him back down, and go back to pick up whatever fell.

I'm not really looking, worrying about Sam and me and the mess we've gotten ourselves into, so when my fingers brush something cold and metallic and as familiar as the sound of my brother's breathing, my knees very nearly give.

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TBC

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	2. In Health and in Sickness

**Author's Note: **I suppose I really should have said this before Chapter 1, but it slipped my mind. This is definitely going to turn completely AU after Friday; it wasn't intended as such, but the story's pretty much written and I don't see myself meddling with it unless something _really_ drastic happens on the show. I hope that won't hamper anybody's enjoyment.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

Thanks to Bad Wolf 42, Cainchan, lotchness, PeppyPower, jensengirl4eva, shimmerinstars, T.L. Arens, J-Bird2006, Klutzygirl33, QuierdoMusic, cold kagome, supernaturaldh and SciFi Girl for reviewing Chapter 1!

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**Chapter 2: In Health and in Sickness**

_How mad did I make him?_

_Damn it. Damn it. DAMN IT._

_Thank GOD it's safe, but damn it, Sammy, I am going to KILL you as soon as you're better. How could you not give it back to me?_

How could he not give it back to me?

I turn to sneak a glance at Sam, now huddled in his hoodie, dead to the world and totally not looking as though I just discovered something in his bag that has absolutely no business being there.

But I'm not going to be calling Sam on it, because – well, like with so much in our royally messed-up lives that needs discussion, what do I say? _I_ was the one who threw the amulet away, and I did it with the single-point agenda of getting back at Sam for daring to have happy moments that didn't involve me.

Which brings me to the question of how the _hell_ it got into Sam's bag to begin with. He must have picked it up right after I threw it out, but Sam's been around a bit since then. So he either had it on him when he went into Lucifer's cage – and I manage to suppress the litany of _no no no no no _that starts in my head whenever I think of Sam in the cage – or he'd left it somewhere safe and he went and got it after he came out.

And _that_ makes me love the kid even more but it also scares me.

If Sam dived for the amulet after I chucked it, and if he's carried it around ever since... well, then he's still my Sammy, no matter how much he pretends that he's not. But the fact that he had it and he didn't give it to me – when _I _came back from Hell he gave it to me right away, the kid _knows_ how much it means to me – that says he's mad. Not mad like me or mad like Dad, but full-on Sam Winchester mad.

Sam doesn't usually bear grudges. That's more my thing. It takes a lot to make Sam bear a grudge, but once he starts you can bet he'll be holding onto it for a _very_ long time. Like when he left for Stanford and Dad told him never to come back – I mean, yeah, I was there, it was a bad fight, and Dad said a lot of things he shouldn't have. I was mad at him, too. But it has to be said for the man that he _tried_ to apologize. Sam wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't pick up the phone; there are times when I think he's _still_ not forgiven Dad for that.

So when I told Sam that if he left with Ruby he should never come back, I knew _exactly _what I was doing. I was risking making Sam very, very angry in the hope that it would stop him from doing something very, _very_ stupid.

Well, we all know how _that _turned out.

Anyway, I was wondering if he would be upset, later, because he knew and I knew that I'd been echoing Dad, but he wasn't – he was going out of his way to do what I wanted, taking whatever crap I threw at him, willing to do just about _anything_ to get me to trust him again.

Maybe that was partly because he blamed himself for the Apocalypse, but even more than that it was because Dad was Dad but I'm Dean, and when it comes to Sammy I've always been able to go a lot further and get away with it. Since I got away with _that_, I was sure I'd get away with anything.

But the amulet dangling from my fingers tells me mockingly that I won't.

I stare at it, wondering just _when _I went too far. The year leading up to Stull Cemetery was anything but pleasant, and I know I hurt Sam, but I never thought it was enough for him to...

I'm considering keeping the amulet, just tucking it into my pocket and refusing to give it back, but that would kind of defeat the purpose. When Sam gave it to me, it wasn't because he was mad at Dad. It was because he was grateful to me. It was _I love you_ and _You're the best big brother_ and _Thank you for being there, Dean_.

I don't know which of those sentiments Sam would take back now, but I have a terrifying feeling that it might be all three.

_Not _all three.

I cast a sudden, desperate glance at Sam, still asleep, and I tell myself that there _is_ something left. I might not be the best big brother anymore – I might not even be a _passable_ big brother anymore – and there were times when I wasn't there for him, but Sam still – he _has _to –

_Damn it._

He does. He _does_. He came to me in the end, didn't he? He stayed away for a year, but he came to me in the end. And a year doesn't mean a damn thing. When I went to get Sam at Stanford I hadn't spoken to him for a lot longer than that.

But... Well. Sam never has a problem saying these things.

_I would die for you. You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. You're still my brother and I love you._

Yeah, I can always count on Sam to come up with girly lines and chick-flick moments just when I need them the least. So if he's not giving me any – if he's not –

But he came back to me. I cling to that thought frantically, like it's my only lifeline. Sam came back to me.

To save me because a monster was after me, and he'd do as much for any stranger he met. Sam coming back to me doesn't mean a damn thing, not when he waited _months_ to do it. Sam keeping the amulet _does_ mean something, but so does his not giving it to me. It was – it _isn't_ –

I drop the amulet back in Sam's bag. My arms are as heavy as lead. I can't move. No matter how firmly I tell myself that the way Sam leaned into my hug when he came back was more than just _duty_, the fact remains that we're _not _allright. Sam's not all right.

And now I don't know whether to laugh at how much I sound like Sam or cry about how little Sam sounds like himself.

I go back to Sam. He hasn't gotten any worse, which is a good sign. His fever hasn't come down, but at least it's not gone up, either. Which, when I think about it, is a pretty good metaphor for the state of our relationship. Not wrecked to hell, not as good as it used to be, just... there.

I'm not quite sure just when my eyes close.

The next thing I know, I'm feeling very stiff. My body is reminding me painfully that I'm going to be thirty-three in a couple of months. It takes me a moment to realize why: I'm twisted awkwardly, half-sitting and half-lying on Sam's bed, one arm bent under me and the other hand brushing the floor.

Sam's still asleep – _really_ asleep; I can hear his even breathing – and I heave myself off the bed before he wakes up and things get uncomfortable.

He's much better now. His forehead is cool under my hand and he's resting easily. I decide to let him get a little more sleep, because God knows the poor kid needs it, while I go grab us some breakfast.

By the time I'm back with bagels and coffee and a vanilla latte for Sam, he's awake and fiddling with something on his laptop. He takes the paper bag with a smile of thanks, dimples making him look about ten years younger than he is.

"I found us something."

Sam turns the laptop to face me. All I see is a map of North America superimposed with a _freakish_ number of red and black lines. I can't make sense of it. _Dad_ couldn't have made sense of it. I would have sworn there was no way Sam could become more of a geek than he was already, but in the year we've been apart he seems to have achieved that. I mean, he's started playing chess against the computer. And _winning_!

"Well?" Sam demands, and I realize he's waiting for an answer.

"Well what, Sam? I don't get his."

"Werewolf attacks." Sam presses a few buttons, and the lines on the map resolve into banded curves like a topographic chart. "By frequency." He presses some more buttons, and the curves shift. "By how long ago they happened." Then he hits a key and the incomprehensible red and black mess comes back. "This is the two of them superimposed on each other."

"And this tells us _what_?"

"Look here." He points somewhere in the region of New England. "And here. And _here_... You see what's happening, Dean?"

"No, and if you could tell me sometime today it'd be nice."

Sam rolls his eyes. "They've been spreading in waves. _This_ is the earliest known incident."

I squint. "That's _miles _inland."

"Yeah, I don't think werewolves came over on the _Mayflower_, Dean."

"But there were werewolves in Europe for centuries before Columbus!"

"So what?" Sam shrugs. "Whatever happened to create the first werewolf in Europe, it's possible that the same thing happened to make one here. Independently."

"I thought you can only become a werewolf by... you know... being bitten."

"I thought so, too, but there has to have been a first time. Maybe a curse, a hunter who got torn apart by wolves and turned into a vengeful spirit... I don't know."

"So you want to go there and check it out?"

Sam's only answer is to nod.

Three hours later we're on the road again. This is as close as life ever gets to perfect now: the Impala, Sam and our next job. I feel a momentary pang for Lisa and Ben – they _really_ deserved better than to have me drop everything to chase after Sammy. But maybe this is best for everyone. What I'm doing is making the world a little bit safer for them, and Sam's dozing next to me. I can't ask for anything else.

Actually, I _can_ ask for Sam to stop being so infuriatingly practical and freaking _talk_ to me about something other than hunting. And I can ask for my amulet back, thank you very much, Sammy. (Except that Sam, pre-law straight-A nerd that he is, will probably tell me that throwing it away constituted abandonment of property or something like that. Besides, how do I raise the subject when Sam refuses to discuss anything that happened before he came back from Lucifer's cage?)

As always, the thought of Sam in Hell makes me flinch.

Sam shoots me a sideways glance. I guess he wasn't asleep after all.

"You OK?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You don't _look_ fine, Dean."

_This _from the man who returned from Hell, from being tortured by freaking _Lucifer_, from a life that before he went to Hell was pretty much five years of one miserable catastrophe after another, and told me he didn't need to talk about anything.

"I'm _fine_," I growl.

"Maybe I should drive for a while."

"I can drive."

"You look like you're about to fall asleep. I'd rather not end up in a ditch."

"Yeah, well, I was up half the night looking after _you_, princess."

Not so long ago, Sam would have looked guilty at that. Now he just shrugs. "I told you to get some sleep. Just let me drive, Dean. You can nap in the back."

"I can nap in the front," I snap as I pull over.

Sam shrugs again. "Suit yourself."

But... well, trust Sam to be right.

When I wake up two hours later, my first thought is that I _should_ have napped in the back, because if I'd napped in the back I wouldn't be discovering that I somehow managed to curl up on the seat and settle my head in Sam's lap. For a moment I teeter on the edge of getting up, but it feels so _right_ to have Sam's hand resting lightly on my shoulder, so warm and comfortable and safe, and when the darkness beckons I don't fight it.

The next time I wake up I'm in a bed. I don't really remember how I got there, although if I concentrate really hard I have vague recollections of gentle hands and Sammy and _It's OK, Dean, just sleep it off_.

That's when I realize I feel horrible. It's too hot and it's too cold and my hair is damp with sweat. I shiver, wanting to open my eyes but not daring to, because after a lifetime of having Sammy sit with me through every sickness, I don't want to see the cocky new _Sam_ who's taken his place.

And then it strikes me that Sam's not there, not checking my temperature or fiddling with my blankets or doing any of the things he normally would as soon as he realized I was awake.

He couldn't have left to hit the drugstore, because I made sure we were stocked up.

The thought that follows is inevitable and it rips a hole in my gut. I force myself to open my eyes and face the room – the empty room. No Sam in the next bed, no Sam crouched over his laptop at the tiny coffee table, no Sam hunched over the first aid kit reading the fine print on the bottles.

No Sam.

It makes me feel even sicker. I try to push myself up, because it looks like I'll have to fetch my own Tylenol, but after a few seconds' straining I give up and let myself collapse onto the bed again.

That's when my hand brushes something, something that moves under my fingers, and when I crane my neck to look I see Sam sprawled on the floor by my bed, his head resting on the mattress a few inches from my hand. His eyelids are fluttering; he blinks at me drowsily for a minute before he says, "Dean? How're you feeling?"

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	3. It Just Had to Happen

**Author's Note: **This was my last chance to post a chapter without it automatically being AU, so... ;-)

Thanks to pgccubsfan, cold kagome, shimmerinstars, BranchSuper, phyllis0016 and jensengirl4eva for reviewing Chapter 2!

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

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**Chapter 3: It Just Had to Happen**

Damn it if the kid doesn't do it to me every _single_ time.

The man looking up at me, still not fully awake, hair falling into his eyes, that's my Sammy. And I understand now: Sam's still recovering, there was no way he could've stayed awake all night no matter _how_ hard he'd tried, especially after driving most of the day, but he still wanted to stay close in case I needed him – close enough for me to reach out and grab him. I would've felt the same way.

And _now_ Sam's pushing me back down and shoving a thermometer in my mouth, and I just relax and let him manhandle me because that's always the same. Sam usually lets me get away with just about anything when I'm sick, so I'm on the verge of asking for the amulet –

But no. He has to give it to me on his own, or there's no point. I mean, it's not the crown jewels, just a piece of metal on a string, and what made it important was that _Sam_ wanted me to have it. For now... Sam's here. Sam's here and running a hand through my hair – I am _not_ pushing up into the touch – and that's enough for me to live on.

I feel exhaustion claiming me again. I let it.

When I wake up again, Sam's still there. I wonder if he realized how alarmed I was the first time, because now he _is_ next to me, sitting cross-legged on the bed, one hand rubbing my back while the other holds open the book he's reading.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah." I roll over, towards him. Sam moves automatically, stretching out his legs and pulling me up so that I'm half-sitting propped against him. For once I'm _glad _he's taller than me: makes me feel warm and safe. Although I'd never admit that to Sam. "Find anything?"

"That can wait, Dean. You need rest."

I'm about to protest, but... Well. This is just too comfortable. It's so easy to just relax, swallow the pills that Sam gives me and then settle down, listen to his heart thumping under my ear and pages rustling as he reads. I realize I'm wearing Sam's black hoodie, and I smile – Sam remembered.

And, really, I don't care about werewolves. Or anything, other than the fact that snuggling up to my overgrown beanpole brother is like cuddling a giant teddy bear. A giant, living, breathing teddy bear. And that Sam's arm around me, not just supporting but holding me to him like he needs this as much as I do, is giving the lie to that game-face he's been putting on.

"What did you find, Sammy?"

Sam sighs and I chuckle. At last he says, "Fine. I'll tell you, but you just listen and don't try anything stupid. We're not going anywhere until you're better."

"I'm –"

"_Dean._"

"I wasn't going to say 'fine'."

"Yeah, because I don't know you well enough to know what you were going to say."

"OK, maybe I was, but do I _look_ like I'm about to move?" I thump Sam's chest to prove my point. "Why would I want to sit in one of those awful poky chairs and drink coffee that tastes like sludge when I can be cuddling with my brother?"

Sam rolls his eyes and I know he's about to pull away from me and get up, because never in my life have I used the words 'cuddling' and 'brother' in the same sentence and been anything other than sarcastic, but suddenly I don't want him to go. I know, _somehow_ I know, that if he does that it'll be like the way he stepped away from me when he saw Lisa, he'll close himself off even more and talk even less and –

Not. Happening.

So I do what I should probably have done _that_ day, get an arm around my brother and grip as tightly as I can. Sam, with another soft sigh, squeezes my shoulder.

"It's all right, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."

That's _my_ Sammy, because nobody else can read me like an open book.

"Tell me," I say, trying to make it sound like an order.

Sam huffs a laugh. Then he starts talking. I listen, in the beginning, to what he's saying about Slavic legends and the early settlers and Native American burial sites, but gradually the words stop mattering and all I hear is Sam's voice. He's lowered it, too, and although I can hear snatches of 'then when the attacks picked up momentum in 1875' and 'of course, that could have been a sign of demonic possession', in Sam's voice it sounds like a bedtime story.

Knowing Sammy, that was his intention all along.

The time passes in a haze of dozing off and being woken and Gatorade and the smell of pie, and through it all Sam's voice, sometimes telling me about what I _think_ is some obscure relationship he's discovered between shapeshifters and werewolves, sometimes pointing out that he can't get me more water unless I let go of his sleeve, but always, _always_ my brother.

Next time I'm thinking straight, it's the middle of the afternoon of I have no idea _which_ day, I'm drenched in my own sweat, and for the first time I can't hear Sam breathing next to me.

"Sammy?"

"Right here, Dean." His voice is coming from somewhere to my right. After a minute, he comes into view, carrying a brown paper bag. "Feeling good enough to eat something?"

"Do I have to?"

"If you want to leave this place before Christmas, then, yeah, you kind of do."

"How about if I'm willing to settle for Easter?"

"Dean!" Sam drops onto the edge of the bed. "Come on, man, I know you don't want to, but you have to eat. You can't live on Gatorade forever."

"At least I've not been bringing up the Gatorade," I point out.

"Yes, congratulations. Now how about you try not to bring up some chicken-noodle soup?"

"_Soup?_ At least you could've got me a Big Mac with fries."

"Do you _want_ to be throwing up?"

"Fine... bitch."

We've fallen so readily into our old banter that I don't even realize I'm expecting a response from Sam until it doesn't come. There's something in his eyes, something shadowed, like a curtain's been dropped.

"Sam?"

"Eat, Dean. You'll feel better."

And Sam sits on the edge of the bed like he's been doing for the last few days, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't offer to help me open the container or sidle close enough for me to rest my aching head on his shoulder – not that I _want_ to, it was just a random thought – or... well... even look at me. He's looking down at a bunch of papers he has in his lap. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was avoiding –

Who am I kidding? This is Sammy. I _don't_ know better.

He has a brown paper bag of his own, but he's showing absolutely no interest in it.

"Aren't you eating anything?" I ask.

"I'm not hungry."

Oh, no. I don't care _what's_ wrong between us, Sammy, I am still your big brother and that means you don't get to pull that stunt with me.

"Fine," I say, putting down the container of soup. "We'll wait till you are."

"Dean, what the hell?"

"You don't eat, I don't eat. That's what the hell."

"_Dean!_"

But I didn't bring up that kid without learning a thing or two about him, and in the end Sam opens the bag and eats the rabbit food that he calls a meal.

It doesn't take long for me to figure out that we're back where we started. Sam's compliant mood of the past few days has clearly just been because I was sick. That almost makes me wish I'd stayed sick longer, but – no. If I'm sick, I can't watch out for Sam. This way's better. At least now I know it's there, our relationship isn't completely wrecked, and maybe I can even do something to fix it.

And if I can't... It's still there. Sam still – well, I don't know if he _trusts_ me, but I know he cares about me enough to give me whatever he thinks I need. _That's_ something. Not enough, but it's something.

For now.

A few hours later, back on the road, I steal a glance at Sam. He's driving, because one thing that _is _new (and that I don't think will go away no matter what I do) is that he's gotten a lot better at putting his foot down when he thinks I'm doing something stupid.

He's got that look on his face again, shuttered, like he's keeping the world out, keeping _me_ out. I hate it. Sammy can keep the world anywhere he damn well wants to, but he has no right – absolutely _no_ right – to try to keep _me_ out. I'm his brother and I've spent my whole damn _life_ watching out for him, and I can do it a hell of a lot better than he can watch out for himself.

Stupid, _stupid_ Sammy.

_When_ did things get so bad that I need to be sick or injured for my brother – my bleeding-heart baby brother who's been known to feel sorry for _vampires_ and who spent his entire childhood practically dogging my footsteps – to give the tiniest sign that he cares about me? When did I make Sammy so mad at me that –

And we're back at the amulet. Why can't I stop thinking about it? I spent a whole freaking year not thinking about the amulet –

Oh, this is stupid. I need to admit the truth to _myself_. I thought about the amulet every day, thought about Sammy's face when I threw it away – yeah, I _wasn't_ facing him, but I didn't need to face him to know what would be going through his freaky head – thought about every angry word and missed chance and every time I pushed him away and _let_ him take the blame for everyone's mistakes.

I shut my eyes and let my head rest on the window, wondering if it'll make Sam think I'm still sick, half-hoping it will if that's what it takes for us to be brothers again. But Sam knows me, and he keeps his eyes on the road.

I wish I could talk to Lisa. She'd know what to do, how to fix this. But...

That just feels wrong. There are three people I've discussed Sam with: Dad, Bobby and Cas. And I've realized that discussing him with Cas was a mistake. Dad cared about Sam as much as I do (or _almost_ as much). Bobby comes close. The rest of the world? They're not getting between me and Sammy again. Nobody, not for any reason. I don't care if they're trying to help or not.

I mean, it's not like Sam and I haven't had fights before. A year into Stanford we had the grandmother of all fights in his spring break, a fight that resulted in him pretending I didn't exist until I went to find him after Dad went missing.

But even then... I mean, I was dead sure, after the words that passed between us, that I'd go there and find that Sam had a life – friends, girlfriend, whatever – in which I had no place. And on the whole I did, because I _so_ don't fit in with the California beach-boy types _or_ the Stanford geeks. Sam's apartment, the little I saw of it, had pictures of him and Jess, him and that Zach guy and other people I didn't know. I thought I glimpsed one of Mom and Dad, but I couldn't be sure, and there were no pictures of me.

When Jessica came in and had no idea who I was... Well, it hurt. I'd never have admitted it to anyone, but I knew how close Sam was to Jessica and I hoped he'd at least have told _her_ something about me.

Then Jessica said "your _brother_ Dean" and I was thrilled that she'd at least_ heard_ of me, that Sam had told her my name and she had bothered enough to remember.

But I swear if I'd known what was going to happen, I'd never have dragged Sam away –

No, actually, I would've done that. I would just have dragged Jessica away too. But if I couldn't have saved her, I would still have taken Sam, because _damn_ it and I know it's selfish, but he's my baby brother and he comes first.

I crack my eyes open and look at Sam again. He's dropped the game face, now that he thinks I can't see him. And now there's so much of the old Sam in his eyes, pain and grief and too many memories and _Sammy_, that I very nearly grab him and envelop him in the biggest hug of his life. But I force myself to stay still, not move a muscle, not make a sound. I don't know what's wrong with Sam, but I know I can fix it. I _will_ fix it.

I'm tempted to tell him to stop the car and hold out my arms to him and just _wait_. I know Sam. It may take a few minutes but eventually he'll break.

I open my mouth to suggest pulling over, but before I can say anything I hear a gasp from Sam and he hits the brake hard enough to make the tyres squeal. I look up and see right away what the matter is: there's a girl standing in the middle of the road, about twenty-two, short blonde hair and big blue eyes.

Big blue _dangerous_ eyes that are staring at us like they're about to burn through us.

That doesn't scare me, though. What scares me is Sam, his eyes wide with horror as he reaches for me.

* * *

TBC

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Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to review.

And here's wishing everyone a brilliant Season 6!


	4. What You Never Knew

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to Twinchester Angel, cold kagome, Quierdo Music, jensengirl4eva, BranchSuper, shimmerinstars and yenneffer for reviews!

This is now officially AU. ;-)

So what did you guys think of the season opener? I loved it. It leaves us with so much potential for the rest of the season... Now I just can't wait till the boys are on the road together again.

**

* * *

Chapter 4: What You Never Knew**

"Sammy?"

"_No._" Sam's hoarse whisper isn't directed at me. I don't think he's even heard me. "Not this... Not _now_." He's found my jacket now, fingers closing around the leather like it's a lifeline. "Not here."

I'm about to ask him what the hell he means, but the girl starts walking towards us, and Sam – my Sam, my brother who faced down Famine and defeated Lucifer – cringes and sidles closer to me. I squeeze his shoulder reassuringly, or try to. I don't know who she is, but if she's bothering Sam, that's enough for me.

"It's OK, Sammy. I'm here."

The girl goes around to the driver's-side door and wrenches it open forcefully. If I weren't already hating her for scaring Sam, seeing her treat my baby like that would do it.

"Hello, Sam," she says, and her voice is like chocolate, smooth and alluring and –

And Sam's backing against me like he used to when he was a kid and something scared him, and what the _hell_ am I doing thinking about the bitch's voice?

"What do you want?" I ask her, because it looks like Sam's not going to say anything.

Blue eyes flicker up to me. "Dean Winchester. What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to find you here. We know Sam's having a hard time dealing with –"

"What do you _want_?" The question comes from Sam. I'm under no illusions: he doesn't care what the woman wants. He was just trying to keep her from finishing that sentence. _So just what are you dealing with, Sam?_

The girl looks at Sam. Her eyes go black, just for a second, but that's long enough.

Demon. Infernal damned demon _bitch_. Infernal damned demon bitch scaring my baby brother, and that's just about enough of that. I reach for my gun, but before I can take it out she grabs for Sam and drags him out. Sam struggles, but he's no match for demonic strength.

"Let him _go_!" I snap, finally locating Ruby's knife.

"No." She lifts Sam so that his feet are dangling a few inches from the ground – she has to stretch her arms up all the way to do it – and shakes him. Sam gasps, his breath suddenly short, and I can feel my blood boiling like it's going to spill out of my veins. "I want to talk." Sam hits out at her, but she only laughs and lowers him so his feet are on the ground again, and then follows up with a blow to the jaw that has him slumping in her arms.

I lunge for her, but she steps back, dragging Sam with her and holding a knife to his throat.

"Do as I say or I'll kill him, Dean."

"You hurt my brother and I'll send you straight back to hell, you bitch!"

"You might. You might not. Sammy'll still be gone. Do as I tell you, Dean, and nobody needs to get hurt. I just want to talk."

I hesitate. "You won't hurt him?"

"I'll leave him alive. No permanent damage." She twitches her hand, and a line of blood appears on the edge of the blade. Sam groans, eyelids fluttering. "You don't have a lot of options, Dean."

"All right... Talk."

"Not here. Get in the driver's seat." She drags Sam around to the back, to the other side, knife still held to his neck. "Now, Dean." I slide to the driver's side, still warm from Sam's body. "Start the car. I'll tell you where to go."

Sam stirs again and she hits him, a sharp blow to the back of the head that sends him straight back out.

"_Bitch_ –"

"Talk nice, Dean. Remember I have your baby brother's life in my hands. Keep driving."

She directs me to what looks like an abandoned farm. She has me stop the Impala near the barn and gets out, still dragging Sam. He hasn't shown any signs of life since she hit him, and I'm starting to get _very_ scared. I can't lose Sammy again.

"Get out."

I open the door and step out. Before I'm fully on my feet something slams into my temple and everything goes dark.

When I wake up, I'm gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of the barn. It smells of hay and horses and saddle-leather, so I guess it can't have been abandoned _too_ long. It's dark, one single sliver of light slanting in through a high window and illuminating –

Oh my _God_.

_Sam._

Sam, arms pulled above his head and tied to one of the roof beams, his toes a couple of feet from the ground. She's taken most of his clothes, stripped him down to a shirt and his boxers, and the shirt's hanging off him in bloody strips.

It's all I can do not to be violently ill.

I try to call to him through the gag, but all that comes out is a wordless mumble. Sam doesn't react. His head's bowed, eyes closed.

I force my gaze away from him. I can't look at Sam right now, because when I do a litany of drives everything else out of my head, and if I'm going to get us out of this I need to be able to _think_. I can't move – the bitch is _good_ with knots, and now that I think about it she must have an accomplice.

Great. Two of them.

And like my thinking about them was a summoning, ritual, they're both next to me. The other one is a man, tall and balding. I can't see much of his face in the darkness.

"Awake at last, Dean?" the man says, pulling out the gag. "We've been waiting for you."

"What have you done to my brother?"

"Don't worry, Dean. He's alive. We've just been talking to him."

"Talking –"

"We can't help it if Sam needs some _encouragement_ to talk." The man walks over to Sam and reaches up to lay a hand on his cheek – _damn _it, get your filthy demon hands off my Sammy! – and shake him awake. Sam groans, opens his eyes. "Welcome back, Sam. How are you feeling? Do you remember yet? It defeats the purpose if you don't."

"Remember what?" I demand, with a sudden, numbing fear that they did something terrible to Sam while I was unconscious. "Damn you, let him _go_!"

The girl laughs, and _damn _it although I'd gladly waste her without a second's thought, I can't help noticing how deceptively nice it sounds. _Bitch!_

_Sammy!_

Sammy's looking at me, and I don't like what's in his eyes. It's not nervousness, it's not stress, it's outright, unbridled fear. Sam, who's had a game-face better than Dad's for the past two months, is terrified. And yeah, I was sick of the game-face and I wanted to get rid of it, but not like this.

"It's going to be OK, Sammy," I say, looking straight at him. "We're going to be fine."

"D-Dean?" Sam's voice is tiny, _way_ too tiny.

"Yeah, Sam. I'm here. I'm here and I'm going to get us out of this. We'll get you patched up. Everything's going to be fine."

"N-no... please... D-Dean... I'm s-s-sorry..."

I open my mouth, but before the _What the hell? _can come out the man steps up to Sam and drives a fist into his ribs. Sam gasps, wrists straining against the ropes, still staring at me with those wide eyes.

"You know," the girl says idly, crouching next to me and watching her partner light into Sam like we're at a freaking _play_, "your brother remembers a lot more about the cage than he'll admit to you. I'm pretty sure of it. In fact, I have a feeling he remembers everything." I try to shut out her words – demons _lie, _demons _lie_ – but there's something gnawing at my gut that tells me she's right. I've seen how haunted Sam lets his eyes get when he thinks I'm not looking at him. "Poor Sammy." She turns to me cocks her head. "You think _you_ had a hard time in Hell, Dean? Lucifer, on his own ground, is more powerful than you could possibly imagine. And he spent enough time inside your brother's head to know how to hurt him."

Demons _lie_, but _damn_ the world and everything in it, I have a feeling that this one's telling the truth.

Sam's head is bowed again, blood dripping from his mouth.

"I am going to send you back to hell, you bitch," I snarl, twisting against the ropes. "Let him _go_!"

"Calm down, Dean. We're not trying to kill him. We're just trying to prove a point. Once it's done, we'll leave."

"You and your – _Sam_!" Sam's eyes have closed, and now his whole body is limp in a way it wasn't before. "Sam! Damn it, I'm going to kill you, bitch! I'm going to send you so far down to hell that you can never come back. I'm –"

"Oh, shut up!" the guy snaps. "He's not dead. And you should be grateful to us. Your brother hasn't been completely honest with you."

Well, yeah, that's true. I mean, Sam was back for _months_ before he came to me and I'm pretty sure he remembers more about his time down under than he lets on. And, yeah, things aren't the way they used to be. But, _damn _it, what's between us is our business, mine and Sam's, and demons do not get to interfere. Especially not demons whose idea of a good time is beating the crap out of my baby brother.

"Let him go."

"All in good time," the girl promises. "He'll be waking up again in a minute."

I lower my head, feeling my shoulders shake. This isn't fair. This is just so _goddamned _unfair, and why can't we ever, _ever_ get a break?

"You could have stayed with the girl," the demon says, as though she's reading my mind. "Lisa. You would have been happy. In fact I'm surprised your brother didn't... Has he ever told you about Arkansas?"

"_Arkansas?_"

"Arkansas, about... six months ago, I think. He hasn't? I'm so sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have let it slip. But considering your new policy of _honesty_ and _equality_... I wonder if Sam really considers you his equal, Dean. Have you ever asked him that?"

"What happened in Arkansas?"

"He came up against a crossroads demon. One Lucifer sent to drag him back down – oh, Lucifer is _very_ angry with your brother. And he knew just what to offer him. Poor Sammy. I'm told he was on the verge of accepting, but your friend Gabriel showed up just in time to stop him."

What's in my head is _Sam no Sam Sam Sam Sammy –_

But what comes out of my mouth is, "Gabriel? You mean like _Gabriel_?"

"The Archangel Gabriel, complete with trump. Yes. Apparently he _is _alive. It's strange, but Lucifer seemed almost _pleased _about that."

"_What did Lucifer offer Sam?_"

"I wish I could tell you, but it's not my secret to reveal. You should ask Sam."

I _will_. This has gone on long enough. I thought I was giving Sam space, but clearly I've been screwing up somewhere. It doesn't matter. I'm going to get us out of here, we're going to have a talk, and Sam's going to answer questions. End of story.

Almost on cue, Sam stirs again.

His eyes don't open all the way this time, just to slits, and he looks like he doesn't really know where he is or what's going on anymore.

"Sammy?" I try. The sudden fear on his face just about breaks my heart. What the _hell_ is all this? What have those demons done to him and _why_ is Sam scared of me? "Sam, come on, little brother. I'm here. You think you can stay awake for me?"

"Dean. I'm _sorry_... I _tried_."

"Tried? Tried what, Sammy?"

Before Sam can answer, the guy catches him one in the solar plexus with the butt of a rifle. Sam moans, trying to curl in on himself, but obviously with the way they've strung him up he _can't_. I can't even think about killing the demons now because the only idea in my head is that I wish I could hold Sam through the pain.

"D-Dean... Sorry..."

For God's sake, stop apologizing, Sam.

"What do you think?" the girl asks, looking at the man. "Maybe we're just not hitting him hard enough."

"I think Lucifer had the right idea. It's not how hard we hit him. It's _where_."

And with that the guy pulls out a pistol, points it, and shoots.

My yell echoes louder than the report, and I wrench my arms so hard I feel my wrists spasm, but then I hear a soft thud and when my vision clears I see Sam on his knees on the ground. The man only shot through the ropes.

Sam's hands are still tied, and he's not even trying to stand up, which says something about how seriously he's hurt.

"Sammy?" I call.

"Sammy," the girl says, getting up and going to Sam, dropping to the ground and sitting back on her heels. She eases the ropes off his wrists. "You want to see how much pain big brother Dean can take?"

"No..." Sam breathes. "No, please. _Please._"

If that's how Sam sounded when he was begging the Trickster to bring me back, I'm not surprised Gabriel caved. It's not even aimed at me but I'm ready to promise Sam anything he wants just to get that broken, despairing note out of his voice. The girl doesn't react, beyond a mocking smile, which just goes to show that she's hellspawn.

She gets to her feet and comes towards me. Sam tries to push himself up, but only ends up falling heavily.

Her eyes are on me and there's death and hell and fire in them, and –

"_No_," I hear Sam beg. "No, please, you have me. Just let him go. Please. _Please._" That sure isn't the stone-cold hunter I've been working with the last few weeks. "_Please._" The barrel of a gun is pressing against my chest, but it's not myself I'm worried about. It's Sam, kneeling on the ground looking like his world is ending. "Please – Dean. _Dean._"

"It's OK, Sammy," I say, because in this instant this is all I have to give him. "It's going to be OK."

"No! Dean – _Dean!_"

The last word is screamed with an edge of desperation, and suddenly the revolver's falling to bits in the girl's hands. Not exploding, not melting, just disintegrating into metal filings and gunpowder, but with a kind of suppressed violence that reminds me oddly of –

I stare over the girl's head at Sam, and I know he did it.

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What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	5. Bandages and Big Brothers

**Disclaimer:** I don't own it.

Thanks to Katy M VT, QuierdoMusic, jensengirl4eva, cold kagome, BranchSuper and Twinchester Angel for reviewing Chapter 4.

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**Chapter 5: Bandages and Big Brothers**

I vaguely hear, "I think our work is done." At some level I'm aware that the demons have gone. I don't care. The only thing that matters is Sam, broken, bleeding, looking so sad and so scared that –

"Sammy?" I keep my voice deliberately gentle. I don't want to spook him. "You think you can come here to me, kiddo?"

"Y-yes," Sam stammers. "Yes, of course. Sorry."

There he goes apologizing _again_. And I still haven't figured out what the hell the Sasquatch is sorry _for_. But there'll be plenty of time to worry about that later. Right now, I need to get us out of here, I need to patch him up, I need to find us somewhere to rest. _Then_ I can try to sort out whatever's in Sam's head.

Sam gets to his feet, staggers the few steps to me, and falls to his knees.

"Easy, Sammy."

He's a little disorientated, and it takes him almost a minute to undo the rope around my right wrist. When it's done my instinct is to grab him and see what they've done to him, but first things first, so I untie the rope around my left wrist while Sam gets to work on my ankles. Then it's done, I'm free, and I'm on the ground with Sam triaging his injuries.

"Any chance you know where the nearest motel is?" I ask, trying not to gag at the sight of the bloody lacerations on Sam's back. They must have taken a whip to him while I was out, and the thought of it is enough to –

Enough to remind me that the time to hunt down demons and torture them to death is _after_ my baby brother's been taken care of.

"Two miles," Sam mumbles. "Think... Saw this place on the map when we were checking our route. Two miles due east."

"That's my boy." Then, because I'd carry Sam if I could but slinging him over my shoulder might aggravate existing injuries and there's simply no other way to lift nearly six and a half feet of muscle, "You up to walking, Sam?"

"Help me?"

When I get over my shock at the fact that Sam actually imagined I was asking him to walk on his own, I say, "Well, obviously. Can't have you collapsing on me, can I?"

"I'm sorry."

I sigh. That is _definitely_ something I need to go into. As soon as I have the blood off Sam.

"Come on, kiddo. Impala's just outside." At least, I hope it is. "Just stay with me till we get to the motel and I've had a better look at you, and then I'll let you sleep. OK, Sammy?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm _sorry_."

I have absolutely no clue _what_ the kid's talking about, but he obviously needs to hear something from me, so I give it to him. "It's OK, Sammy. I'm not mad."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise. You ready to stand up now?" Sam nods. "OK. You just concentrate on keeping your balance. Let me do the work." Sam's hand closes around a fistful of my jacket. I ignore the warm feeling that small, trusting gesture brings with it, and heave him to his feet. For a moment he totters and we're both in danger of falling, but then it's over and he's leaning on me and he seems to have found some balance. "That's it, Sam... Come on, now, let's go."

The ride to the motel is short, but agonizing. Sam's refused to lie down in the back – well, he didn't exactly _refuse_, but the look on his face when I was about to lower him into the backseat was enough – so he's next to me, wearing a hoodie I fished out for him, his head resting on the window-glass and his eyes closed. He's awake, though, because I can see the tiny grimace of pain at every bump and jolt – and the road's so awful that no matter how hard I try, it's a rough drive.

When we get to the motel there's another tough moment when Sam realizes I'm going to have to leave him alone to go get us a room. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even look up at me, but it's there in the miniscule trembling of his shoulders. I hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out if there's _any _way I can take him into the motel office with me... There isn't, though, not without awkward questions, and little though I like leaving Sam alone even for a short time, it has to be done.

All it takes is, "I'll be back in a minute, Sammy," said in my best casual-yet-reassuring big-brother voice (although in fact I think I'm trying to reassure myself more than Sam). In any case, he nods, and I go.

I'm back in the promised minute, taking the Impala right up to the door of our room and then going around to get Sam out. As soon as I have him sitting on the edge of the bed I go for our bags and the first-aid kit.

"See?" I ask Sam lightly, going inside and shutting the door behind me. "We're OK. Give me a minute to lay the salt lines and then I'll come patch you up."

"You don't... have to."

What the _hell_ is wrong with the kid? He's watching with those same sad eyes while I lay the salt lines, and when I'm finally done and I put away the bag and go back to him, something tells me that dealing with his physical injuries first is going to be a mistake. I don't think they're life-threatening, but even if I'm wrong there's something else that needs fixing before I can get to them.

So I sit down next to Sam, on the pillow – because that's the only place _to_ sit, not because it gives me a couple of extra inches – and grab his biceps. Sam ducks his head, not meeting my eyes, not saying a word. I wait, hoping Sam will say something, but then I hear a soft sniffle and decide that enough's enough.

"Sammy?"

I would rub his back, but the way he is right now I don't dare – I don't want to tear any of his wounds open further.

It's very difficult to stick to my resolve when Sam looks up at me. He doesn't look as upset now – or at least he's managing not to show it – but there's something wrong. He's wearing that kicked-puppy look he gets when he's trying too hard to be strong and grown-up. Normally I'd know how to say _I'm here and everything's going to be OK_ without forcing Sam to admit he's feeling vulnerable – hell, normally I'd just _say_, "I'm here and nothing can happen to you." But now I'm not sure, either, and... _Damn it._ Seriously, there should be something in the little-brother rulebook about how many times in an hour you're allowed to use those eyes.

"Hey," I say lightly, patting his shoulder. "Remember that time when you were eight and you broke your arm riding your bike?"

I can see from Sam's smile that he remembers. He was tiny at eight, tiny and scared and hurting, and Dad was trying his best but he just wasn't equipped to deal with a panicked Sam (because who else _but _Sam could break their arm in three places riding a bike on an empty street?). Sam wouldn't stay still on the operating table, hated being alone with a bunch of strangers poking at him, and almost cried when they tried to put him under.

So I had to go in and sit behind him on the table, and Sam burrowed himself into my jacket and the doctor wasn't pleased but she managed to work around me and the arm got set in the end.

I tell Sam the story, even though he knows it, to keep him distracted while I ease his arms up and take off the hoodie. The shirt I don't even bother trying to save, just rip the few threads still holding it together and toss it in the trash.

"And that wasn't the only time I had to do it, you know," I go on as I feel for broken ribs. None. Good. One less thing to worry about. "When you had to get your shots as a baby, you always wanted me there. Even when Mom was still around, you wanted your big brother." I push him down onto his stomach so I can start on his back. "Dad took me to see you in the hospital on the day you were born."

"Never told me that," Sam says drowsily.

"Never came up, I guess. I need to get some water, Sam. I'll be right back." I make it quick, but Sam's eyes are shut by the time I'm sitting on the edge of the bed with a bowl of water and a towel. "Rise and shine, princess." I shake him lightly. "I'm sorry, kiddo, but you have to stay up for me till I'm done and you've got some food in you."

"'Msorry."

There he goes _again_.

"When Mom and Dad told me they were having another baby, I hated the idea," I say, trying to distract him from the inevitable sting of water on his back. Sam flinches, and I curse myself. _Yeah, way to cheer the kid up, Dean. Tell him his big brother didn't want him. _But now that I've started it, I have to go on. "Hey, let me finish, Sam. I hated the idea, I was sure I'd hate the baby, and nothing Mom or Dad could say would make me believe otherwise." I'm working as I talk, mopping up blood, putting in stitches where I have to. "Then on the day you were born Dad took me to the hospital. They sat me down in one of those big chairs, and then a nurse brought you and put you in my arms." My voice is getting a little thick, because even now I can remember every bit of what I felt in that moment. "You grabbed my finger and sort of snuggled up to me, and _God_, Sammy, until that moment I didn't know what it was like to love something."

"Did you come again?" Sam mumbles.

"Everyday. Dad used to bring me over after school. When they brought you home I slept with you in your nursery for a month because I hated the idea of you being all alone at night. And even when Mom and Dad persuaded me that you'd be fine, I used to sneak in to check on you." I pause, concentrating on sewing up a particularly nasty laceration, and then say, "Do you really think we have nothing in common other than hunting, Sam?"

"Who told you that?"

"You remember that Djinn –"

"Djinn's an ass."

"Well, you said it too, in that alternate universe the Djinn put me in."

"_Dean!_" Sam sounds a little exasperated, and _God_ that's nice to hear. "That wasn't me. That was something the Djinn invented to screw with your mind."

"Butif there hadn't been hunting, you think we would still be –?"

"_Yes._"

The answer is suspiciously sharp, suspiciously quick. Why am I doing this? My aim was to cheer Sam up, not depress him, the Djinn was freaking _years _ago, and why the _hell_ am I doing this?

I know the answer without thinking about it. I could dismiss the comment when it was made, because back in _my _world there was _my _Sam who was worrying himself sick about me, because _my _Sam loved me and needed me. But in the mess after Lucifer got loose it came back to haunt me more than once, and now...

I swallow convulsively.

"Dean?" Sam prods. Half-conscious, barely keeping his eyes open, _trust_ Sammy to notice I'm upset.

"Sammy... In that place... You said we never spoke outside of holidays."

"Maybe... But that doesn't mean... You said he – that is, I – insisted... going with you... warehouse."

I sigh.

"OK, stop talking, Sam. You're tiring yourself out."

"_Dean._"

I launch into another story, this one about teaching Sam to read. Sam doesn't look like his falling for it, but he's too tired to protest, and when I finish that and start another one about his first birthday he just listens. Maybe it's screwed up that one of us needs to be semiconscious for us to have any kind of normal conversation, but we're Winchesters and screwed up is what we do best.

Besides, I'll fix this. I. Will. Fix. This.

I roll Sam when I need to, turning him so I can get at every last scrape and bruise. It takes a while, but he doesn't protest. When I'm finally done, I prop him up again. I debate going out to get food, but I can't leave Sammy like this.

In the end I order us something from the first diner I call that's willing to deliver, and then I sit on the bed and pull Sam close. This time when he gives me that look I _do_ hug him, wrap my arms around him and tuck his head under my chin and rock him a little, because even if he _is_ twenty-eight years old and likes to pretend he doesn't need me anymore, he's my baby brother and it'll make him feel better.

But Sam's not pretending, not the slightest bit. He's pulled up his knees and hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself small enough to burrow into my arms as comfortably as he did when he was an eight-year-old on the doctor's table. It's a lost cause – he can curl up all he likes, but that's two inches a good fifty pounds he has on me and he can't do a thing about it.

I decide to wait until he's got some food in him before pushing him to talk – of course, then there's the danger that he'll fall asleep on me, but now that I know there's something I don't know, I'll just have to keep at it until Sam gives. And _believe _me, Sam is going to give.

I mean, I want to know Sam trusts me, I want to have our old relationship back, but not like this. Not if it involves Sam being tortured by a pair of demons.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's OK, Sammy." Right, the first thing I'm going to ask him is what the hell he's apologizing for, because this is driving me crazy. "I'm not mad."

"You weren't... supposed... get hurt."

"In case you didn't notice, I'm _not_ the one who's hurt, you overgrown idiot."

"'Msorry..." Sam mumbles, and I wonder if he's even aware of what I'm saying. Then, at his next words, my blood runs cold. "Didn't mean... you... get hurt... I'll... go..."

* * *

TBC

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What did you think? Please review!


	6. It's Not OK

**Disclaimer: **If the boys had been mine, there would've been a lot more of Sammy getting choked in S5.

Thanks to Katy M VT, yenneffer, jensengirl4eva, cold kagome, shimmerinstars, QuierdoMusic, Twinchester Angel and BranchSuper for reviewing.

* * *

**Chapter 6: It's Not OK**

"The hell you will!" Sam flinches at the anger in my tone, trying to pull away from me. I tighten my grip, because he is _so_ not getting off that easy, but I also lower my voice because my intention isn't to scare the poor kid when he's already injured. "You're not going _anywhere_, Sam. You try to run out on me, and..." I pause, trying to think up a suitable threat. In the end I give up and go with the truth. "... And I'll hunt you down and we'll have a much longer and more unpleasant talk about this. Got that?"

Sam nods against my shoulder.

Now that we've got _that _straightened out, I ease my grip and help him settle down more comfortably. We don't say anything. We don't need to say anything, because Sam's hand fisted in my shirt is _Don't leave me, Dean_, and my arm around his shoulders is _Not leaving you, Sammy_, and that's really all that has to be communicated.

Until somebody knocks at the door. I'm tempted not to answer, but it's probably the food and Sam needs to eat.

So I get up, pay the guy, almost punch him because of the way he stares past me at Sam, then slam the door on his apologies and carry the bag to the bed.

"Here you go, kiddo." I pull a couple of containers out. "Eat. Can you feed yourself?"

That earns me a glare, the glare earns Sam a chuckle, and I drop onto the other bed – _my _bed – to give him some space. Sam looks at me gratefully, so maybe it's a good idea, but by the time he's finished his dinner he's twitchy and nervous again.

I get rid of the debris, get Sam comfortable, and go for his laptop bag.

"What're... doing?"

"Don't know the first damn thing about this hunt, Sammy. I've been kind of out of it. I'm not sleepy yet, might as well use the time to go through your notes." I sit on his bed this time, close enough for him to grab me if he needs me, and open the laptop. "Go to sleep, Sam. I'm right here."

Sam mutters something unintelligible. His eyes close, and a moment later his even breathing fills the room.

I'm skimming through everything Sam's saved – pictures, web pages – about werewolves, amazed that the kid actually managed to put this together. It's huge, and I can't imagine the effort it must have taken to go through centuries' worth of stories and lore from all over the country. Trust Sammy to –

Then an accidental click opens a page on witchcraft. I'm about to close it when something catches my eye.

A second later I'm shaking Sam awake, not even bothering to be gentle.

He blinks and opens bleary eyes. "Dean?"

"What the _hell_, Sammy?" He winces, but this time I'm too furious to lower my voice. "What the hell were you _thinking_? What were you going to _do_?" Of course it was only a random web page, nothing to suggest that Sam was actually planning on... Oh, _hell_! I know him. He damn well _was _planning on it. "Or are you still planning it? Just keep me distracted until you can get it done, is that it?"

"What?"

"Here!" I snap, turning the laptop so he can see the screen. "You stupid little – _damn _it, Sam, how could you even think about it?"

His eyes go wide when he sees what I was looking at. "Dean, I was just –"

"You were just _what_, Sam? You were going to make me forget everything? Put a spell on me to give me some kind of supernatural amnesia?"

"I wasn't going to make you forget _everything_, just..." Sam trails off, flushing, as though he didn't realize what he was saying. Despite my anger – and believe me, I'm _furious_ – I'm a little concerned. The kid was hoping to be a lawyer, after all. It's usually a lot harder to catch him out.

I'm not concerned enough to let him off answering, though.

"Just what?" Nothing. "Just _what_, Sam?"

"Just forget... you know... _me_." I'm struck speechless for a moment, my brain refusing to process what's been said because the thought is so... "Dean, please." Sam looks at me imploringly. "I knew you were miserable about Stull Cemetery. I thought it would help –"

"Help?" I manage to choke out. "_Help?_ How – _what _were you –?" But I can't finish the question, because it's just too awful to think about. Yeah, I was miserable, but it would have been _worse _if... For a second I imagine it, knowing something's missing but not knowing what, going through my whole life with no idea _why_ my soul feels incomplete, without even any memories of Sammy to get me through the worst moments. I get to my feet and back away. "How could you even _think_ about doing that to me? You _still_ planning to try it when I'm distracted?"

"_No_," Sam says, and despite everything I believe him. There's no lie in his voice. "No, I'm not. I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean... I just thought you'd be happier..."

"Without you?" I demand incredulously. "You thought I'd be happier without you? Jeez, Sam, you should have told me _before_ you decided to donate your brain to the Museum of Natural History."

"Dean –"

"I mean, _you_ went to Stanford."

"Dean –"

"_You're_ supposed to be the smart one. I bragged to everyone I knew about my genius brother."

"Dean –"

"I mean, honestly, Sammy, what were you _thinking_? Actually, no, you can't have been thinking, because if you had been you'd have known it was the worst idea you've ever had –"

"Dean, I'm sorry –"

"_Sorry?_ Sorry doesn't cut it, Sam. It's bad enough that you let me think you were dead when you _weren't_, but you were actually _seriously_ considering making me forget..." I trail off, unable to finish the thought. "_Why_, Sam? Just... Why?"

"Look, I'm sorry you were so upset, Dean, but I thought you'd be OK. You _promised _me you'd be OK! I was doing what was best for you –"

Sam isn't expecting the right hook, and when I hit him his head snaps back sharply.

There's no sound other than my breathing and Sam's breathing. But there doesn't need to be, because Sam's eyes are looking into mine, hurt and scared, and _damn it _just a few hours ago I was terrified I was going to lose him and now I punched him and what was _I_ thinking?

I can't stand to have Sam looking at me like that. It's a reminder of all my failures as a brother, of every time I pushed him away when he needed me. I finally thought we were making some progress but now he's obviously never going to trust me again, because what kind of idiot do you have to be to trust someone who punches you right after you've been mauled by a pair of demons? Oh _God_, now he's really going to hate me, he's never going to forgive me and it's my fault, it's my –

I have to go. I have to _go_. I can't stay here and meet Sam's eyes.

I run for the door, ignoring Sam calling my name, ignoring everything but the need to get outside.

I don't go far, because I want to be able to keep an eye on the motel room to make sure Sam doesn't try something stupid like trying to get out and find me. I don't think he will: he _has_ to hate me right now; but with Sam you never know. I settle down on the curb, out of sight of the motel room window but near enough to get to Sammy in a minute if he appears in the doorway.

I need to think.

This is stupid. This is _stupid_, and it's not like Sam. No matter what I said to him just now, Sam's not an idiot. How the _hell_ did he wind up thinking –

It makes me feel like a traitor, and a horrible brother, but I force myself to imagine a world in which I don't remember that there was ever another Winchester. I would stay with Lisa. I wouldn't have nightmares. I'd help her bring up Ben. Maybe I would be happy. And maybe, when I wasn't happy, when I felt like my soul was torn in two and I didn't understand why or what was missing, maybe Lisa would help me forget –

_No._

There were days when I didn't have nightmares, when I popped a couple of pills and managed dreamless sleep. On those days I'd wake up, and for the first few seconds of consciousness I'd feel an awful ache in my heart, a miserable sinking in the pit of my stomach, and I wouldn't know why. Then I'd _remember_ and –

Sam's here. I remind myself of that firmly. Sam's here, Sam's alive, and maybe Sam hates me but he's alive. That's what's important.

But I remember that horrible swooping sensation. Forgetting Sam wouldn't have meant being happy, I know that. My _brain_ might have forgotten him, but no freaking spell could ever make me feel complete without him. It would have meant that soul-crushing, mind-numbing despair, that feeling of empty desolation. I can't think of _anything_ that could conceivably have been worse –

The motel room door opens and Sam's there, clearly holding himself up through a supreme effort of will. His eyes are caught between misery and terror. I'm still upset with him, but with that look on his face do I really have an option?

"I'm right here, Sammy." I get to my feet. "Go back inside. I'll get you some ice."

"Dean?"

"Go on. I'll be right back."

Ice wrapped in one of my t-shirts, because every last one of the towels in our room has been used to mop up blood, and I'm holding it to Sam's jaw because he looks like he wouldn't know what to do with it if I gave it to him. Sam's sitting a little stiffly, almost like he's scared. And I don't know what to do because I'm still furious – with Sam for thinking up the scheme, with myself for hitting him – and I don't want to say something I'll regret.

But I have to say something.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Sammy," I say at last. "Not that you didn't deserve it, and more. But I shouldn't have done it when you were already hurt."

"I was just trying to help you."

His voice is small, like he's a kid again, and I swallow. I hoped to leave talking till he got a good night's sleep, but this is just getting worse and worse and the time for giving Sammy his space is long gone.

"Hold this." I guide Sam's hand up to the ice pack and make sure he's got a firm grip before I let go.

Sam's shivering. Stupid kid, coming after me when it was freezing outside and he was already weak from blood loss. I wrap a blanket around him. The trembling eases just a fraction. It'll have to do for now. What he needs is medicine and some sleep, but what he needs even more is for me to find out what's gone wrong between us so that I can find a way to fix it before things spiral totally out of control.

I will fix this. I _will_.

"Right, Sammy, we're going to have a talk." He nods mournfully, and it takes all my self-control to keep from giving up on the talk and offering him something to help him sleep instead. "And I'm pissed at you, yeah, but I'm not leaving you. Got that? I am _not_ leaving you."

"You don't have to –"

"For the last time, Sam, _no_. I'm here. I'm staying. We're not having this discussion again. And if you even _think_ about sneaking off in the middle of the night I'll give you an ass-whipping you'll never forget." I wait for him to nod again before I go on. "Good. Now that we've got _that_ straightened out... What the _hell_ made you think I'd be happier if I forgot that you ever existed?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, Sam, I _get_ that you're sorry. What I don't get is why you'd think such a thing."

"You would've been happier if I hadn't been born," Sam mumbles. "Mom wouldn't have died... Dad wouldn't have started hunting... You could've –"

"_Sam!_" I snap, knowing only that I have to stop this train of thought before he takes it any further. "That's _enough_. That's _bullshit_ and you know it. None of that was your fault. Mom made the deal, and it sucked, but _she_ was the one who made it. _Dad_ chose to start hunting. Yeah, it was a pretty miserable way to grow up, but I would have been a lot more miserable without you. Dad would've been a lot more miserable without you. He didn't show it much, but you were the one who kept us both grounded."

"But it would never have happened," Sam protests. "You would've had a family, and a normal life..."

And I have a vision of myself growing up with Mom and Dad in Lawrence, having friends, having a steady girlfriend, going to college, getting a regular job...

But no Sam. No baby brother nestling in the crook of my arm for his bedtime story or clinging to me for comfort after a nightmare. No teenager showing me the straight-A report cards that he never bothered to tell Dad about. No Sammy to tease and bully and argue with and secretly be very, very proud of.

A world without Sam Winchester in it, but perfect in every other way.

Sucks out loud.

"No. Not without you, Sam." Sam sighs heavily and slumps against his pillows. "And you're not telling me you think I'd be happy that way. You know better, Sam, and I know that. Now quit it and tell me what the real reason is." Sam lets out a shaking breath that's almost a sob. "Hey. Right here, kiddo. Not going anywhere. Come on, Sammy. Talk to me."

"He t-told me."

"He?"

"Lucifer. Told me... you would've been... better off... if I was... never born."

And suddenly Sam's turning away from me, shoulders shaking, and I swear, if I ever get my hands on Lucifer, I'm going to make _him_ wish he was never born, angel or not.

"Sam, calm down," I soothe, squeezing his shoulder because I can't rub his back. "Sammy, it's OK. I'm here." Sam chokes on a sob that he's trying to hold back. _Good going, Dean._ "Easy, Sammy. Everything's going to be fine. I promise." I keep murmuring to him until he stops shaking. When he finally settles down and draws away uncomfortably, I say, "So what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"What made you change your mind?"

Sam sighs. "I didn't, at first. It was just that it was too impractical. There was a risk that you'd run into Bobby or Chuck or someone who'd let something slip. And then... You know... I just _couldn't_. I couldn't bear the thought that I'd meet you someplace and you wouldn't even _know _me." He shifts a little. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just... Scared. For you. Because after I got out Lucifer sent his demons after me and I was afraid if I got dragged back, and you eventually went to Heaven and I wasn't there... I didn't want you to be miserable for _eternity_."

We are so screwed up that it's not even funny. There are probably a hundred issues that need addressing in that little speech alone, but I have to deal with the most pressing one first. "But now you're not going to do it, Sam. We're clear about this?"

"Mmmph."

"_Sam?_"

"I'm not going to do it, Dean."

"That's my boy." But although I'd like to leave it at that, I can't. Sam's _not_ an idiot. "But you really thought I'd be happier without you just because he said so? You should know better than that. Why'd you believe him?"

"Lucifer?"

"Yeah."

Sam shrugs uncomfortably. "I don't know..."

"_Sam._"

"I guess... I was already thinking it myself. You would've been better off without me."

Oh.

_Oh God._ That's one I _wasn't_ expecting. I know we've had our rough spots, but I never imagined Sam actually thought –

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe what Sam means is that after Lucifer rootled around in his head he managed to mess things up enough that Sammy just got a little mixed up and –

_Stop kidding yourself, Dean._

And this is terrifying, more terrifying than anything I've ever had to deal with, because I've got Sam back in more ways than one, because he's _finally_ talking to me, but I can tell that I'm on wafer-thin ice and if I mess up now...

"When were you thinking it, Sam?"

Sam huddles in on himself, looking like he wants to sink into the ground. I stand up and back off just enough to keep him from feeling trapped and then ask the question again.

"Before," Sammy mumbles, and it's so soft I have to strain to hear it. "You know... before."

"Before Stull Cemetery?" I ask hoarsely.

With Sam's tiny nod, my entire world is ripped to shreds.

Poor boys! I just _have_ to leave them there. ;-)

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	7. Time to Fix Things

**Disclaimer: **Not mine!

I loved Episode 3! It was so nice to see the boys together again. And Sam working out... ((happy sigh))

Thanks to jensengirl4eva, QuierdoMusic, Twinchester Angel, cold kagome and BranchSuper for the reviews!

* * *

**Chapter 7: Time to Fix Things**

_No. No no no no no no no._

Sam didn't just jump into Lucifer's cage, he did it thinking I didn't need him, I'd be happier without him –

_No no no no no no –_

_Get a grip, Dean!_

"God, Sammy, _no_."

And suddenly my breath is catching, and _no no no_, and I can't hold Sam close enough, I'm crushing him and I'm probably hurting him but I need to feel his heartbeat and hear his breathing and _God no no NO _and Sam must've dropped the ice pack because his arms are around my neck but to hell with ice packs, to hell with _everything_, I need to hold Sam, I need Sam to hold me, I need –

I need to calm down, because I'm holding Sam so tightly that a couple of his wounds are starting to seep blood again.

But when I loosen my grip Sam only tightens his, and that's when I realize he's talking, a litany of _I'm sorry_ and _Dean, please don't_, and why the _hell_ does Sammy insist on apologizing all the time? I stroke his hair, damp with sweat – not with my tears, because I'm _not_ crying – and hush him.

"Well," Sam says at last, thickly, pulling away, "we're pretty messed up."

I don't have it in me to provide a decent comeback. Not now.

"Sammy, what –?"

"Let it go, Dean," Sam begs. "Please."

"Sam –"

"_Please._"

And what can I do, anyway? It's Sam. If he uses that particular tone there isn't a thing I won't do for him.

Damn little brothers and their puppy-dog eyes.

"You know that's not true, Sam," I say gently, because I can postpone the detailed discussion but I can't leave _that_ hanging. "You _know _it. And if you don't..." _If you don't, it's my fault for being the world's worst brother and letting you go to Hell thinking I was happy to be rid of you. _"If you don't, I'm telling you now. The day that nurse in Lawrence put you in my arms, you became the most important person in my life, and _nothing_ is ever going to change that. Got that, Sammy?"

Sam nods.

Of course there's more to be said, because there's no way this is going to be over that easily – not if I know Sam and not if I know our Winchester luck – but he's tired. He needs rest. And I just don't have the energy to deal with more right now. I know I screwed up, I know that someday soon I'm going to have to sit Sam down and have him tell me exactly how and where I screwed up, but not tonight.

Tonight it's enough that Sam's alive and Sam's _here_. Now he's starting to fall asleep, and I push him down to the bed and his pillow so he'll be more comfortable. When I sit on the bed with the laptop he sidles as close to me as he can without actually admitting that he _wants_ to. I don't know whether it's to reassure himself that I'm not leaving or to promise me that he's not going anywhere. Probably a bit of both. I don't know whether to be relieved that he's not pushing me away or worried that he's being so uncharacteristically clingy.

Sam wakes up in the morning feeling well enough to complain when I insist on him leaving the bathroom door unlocked. I'm so thrilled at his expression, closer to the Sam Winchester bitchface than anything I've seen since way before Stull Cemetery (and _how_ did I not realize in all those months that Sam wasn't himself?), that I don't even give him the big-brother's-prerogative lecture.

It tires him enough that he doesn't argue about spending the day resting in the motel instead of getting back on the road. Werewolf's been waiting for a few hundred years. It can wait a couple of days longer.

"Not so fast," I say, when he settles down with his laptop. "Hold the research for a minute, geek boy. I need to check your injuries first."

"Dean, I'm _fine_."

"_Fine_ like that time in Indiana when that poltergeist put a breadknife through your shoulder and you forgot to tell me about it?"

"That was years ago, Dean! I was sixteen!"

"Yeah, that wasn't so bad because you weren't so overgrown then so I could haul your ass back to the Impala when you collapsed from blood loss. Now stop arguing and let me _see_ and then you can do whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" There's a playful edge to Sam's voice that's been absent from it for so long I'd almost forgotten what it sounds like.

"Yeah. Except anything I tell you not to do."

"Dean!"

"Quit stalling, Sam. If I have to do it by force, I _will_."

Sam makes a face and sits on the bed. I have to help him off with his T-shirt, which doesn't take long once I've pointed out that he can either let me do it and get to his research quickly, or spend all day trying to do it himself and get to his research _never_.

The injuries are healing. Nothing looks infected. I mop up a bit of blood, change a couple of bandages, and pat his shoulder.

"See, Sammy? That wasn't so bad."

While he gets back to his laptop, I settle down to clean the guns. I have a feeling that this _thing_ – and with everything that's been happening, I _still_ don't know the details – is going to need some heavy-duty firepower.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

I open my mouth to ask for more information on what he's found, but my eyes fall on the pistol I'm taking apart, and I have a sudden flash of the demon's gun disintegrating to nothing the previous day.

"Dean?"

"Sammy, you..." I hesitate, not wanting it to sound like an accusation. "You did that, didn't you? To her gun."

Sam nods without a word, eyes shadowed.

"Why _then_?" is my next question, and the minute I hear it, I know it's come out wrong. What I meant was _Why didn't you something sooner and save yourself a lot of pain and me a lot of worrying?_ but Sam, from the look on his face, has heard _Why didn't you tell me earlier that you're still a supernatural freak so I could get the hell away from you?_

And just like that, he closes himself off again.

"No," I say quickly. "I didn't mean – I mean, I wasn't saying – I'm not blaming you, Sammy." _Damn it damn it damn it. Too late, Dean._ "It's not your fault." _Yeah, that makes it sound like he has some awful disease._ "That is... I just..." _Something. Say something. Say something to salvage this or it's all going straight back downhill. _"I _trust _you, Sam." Oh God. Oh _God_. This isn't working. Sam's just looking at me like he doesn't believe a word of it. "Did you exorcise them, too?" _Oh, well done, Dean. Now he looks like you've accused him of torturing baby animals._

"No." One word, brittle, choked out, and what the _hell_ do I do now?

"Tell me about the werewolf, Sam." _Tell me about the werewolf, and maybe while you're talking about it you'll forget what I said and I can pretend this whole conversation never happened._

Right, because _that's_ going to happen.

Sam launches into an explanation, and I try to make sense of the maps and books and newspaper articles he's shoving at me, and it's _almost_ like old times except that yesterday he was close to being _Sammy_ but today he's all _Sam_.

Two days and a thousand miles later there's no improvement.

Sam's better, of course, healing nicely and well enough to sit in the passenger seat and stare moodily out the window. The silence is getting to me, though. It's not the _I'm pissed at you so I'm not talking to you until you apologize_ silence. That I can deal with. It's the _I give up and I'm not even going to try anymore_ silence.

I swallow, thinking of all the times we've argued over the years. We've had some serious fights, even when we were kids.

As soon as Sam was old enough to understand the concept of _arguing_ it seemed like he started doing it every chance he got. The amount of time we spent in the backseat of the Impala or in some motel room, sitting as far away from each other as we could, driving Dad crazy because we wouldn't even look at each other...

Sometimes Dad made us apologize to each other when the oppressive silence really got to him. That was always only a temporary truce, though, and it didn't take long for it to disintegrate into an argument again. The real peace always came later, when I sat in an armchair with Sam's favourite book very visibly on the table next to me, and he slunk in from whatever corner he'd been sulking in to look up at me with that melting gaze (and it was even more lethal when he was four) until I relented and lifted him onto my knee.

When we got old enough not to want the proximity – actually, when _Sam_ got old enough, because no matter what I told him I didn't mind rocking him to sleep until he got so big that it was physically painful – which, Winchesters being Winchesters, was just a couple of years later, it would be the chair next to mine that Sam slipped into and a friendly jab on the arm he got instead of a cuddle, and eventually the book was replaced by pancakes and then by beer. But there was always something on the table, and he always came.

I glance at him, and wonder if the answer could be that simple.

I consider stopping at the next bar... But no. Sam's not fully recovered yet, and I'm not taking chances with him. He gives me enough heart attacks without that.

Tomorrow, then. Tonight I'll just get us to a motel. Some food and rest is bound to make us both feel better. If Sam's still not talking to me tomorrow, I'll drag him to a bar. Maybe I'll even see if I can find a bookstore that stocks Dr Seuss; if nothing else it'll result in the bitchface.

I stop at the first motel I see: it's a little seedy, even by our standards, but we're both tired enough not to care. Sam's been dozing in the passenger seat for the past hour, and I don't really feel like driving anymore tonight. The silence has been getting almost _solid_; it feels like even the Impala is sulking at me. Which is really unfair. At least _Sam_ has something to complain about.

I get our stuff out and toss it in the room before I go back for Sam. He wakes up when I open his door, blinking at me sleepily.

"What happened?"

"We're stopping for the night. Come on."

I reach down for him, and in the first few moments of disorientation he lets me ease him out of the car and walk him to the motel room with a hand at his elbow. At the door he shakes himself and pulls away.

"I'm fine, Dean."

Looks like we'll be hitting that bar tomorrow, after all. Maybe I can surprise him with a vanilla latte.

The next morning things _still_ haven't improved, and they only get worse over the course of the day. Sam's sulking. It's never lasted this long before, except that one time when he was at Stanford, and that hardly counts because we weren't even in the same _state_. (And when we were... Well, Sam never knew about it.) Before Stanford – sometimes Sam stayed mad at _Dad_ for days on end, but not at me.

When I suggest the bar he shrugs. Bad. Very bad. If he'd rolled his eyes or made a face or said something snarky about my upstairs brain I would've been happy. But indifference is never a positive sign, especially not where Sam's involved.

I drive us to the nearest bar I can find that isn't too crowded. Sam walks away from me as soon as we're inside, locates a small table in a corner and settles down with an encyclopaedia-sized book on werewolf lore.

That's perfectly normal, of course. Sam has never understood the _point_ of bars; sitting at tables reading up on things that no other human being could _possibly_ care about – well, OK, werewolves are kind of cool, but the _rest_ of the stuff he reads – is what Sam _does_ at bar. He could be in a singles joint surrounded by twenty-year-old female gymnasts and he'd sit there making notes in the margins of newspaper articles.

That's perfectly normal... So _why _does it suddenly bother me?

It doesn't matter – no, that's not true; it _does _matter, but since I can't do anything about it right now I might as well enjoy my beer.

Besides, this is starting to annoy me. I actually thought we were making progress – hell, we _were_ making progress – so where exactly does Sam thinks he gets off sulking at me for days on end and not even telling me _why_? I mean, all I did was ask him a question, and a pretty natural question under the circumstances. I didn't say _anything_ to suggest that I thought he shouldn't have done it or that I didn't believe him.

And I've apologized at least a dozen times.

The problem is that I don't even think me asking Sam whether he exorcised the demons is the real issue here. But I don't know what the issue _is_, and my idiot brother won't tell me. I'm not saying he doesn't have cause to be angry with me – I can think of at least a dozen reasons for him not to want to talk to me – but how does he expect me to do anything about it if he won't even tell me what he's angry _about_?

I don't know what to do, and this is not _fair_. I'm Dean Winchester. I blast demons and hack the heads off vampires and do all the cool things that would impress the girls if I could tell them about them. Dealing with girly stuff is supposed to be _Sam's_ job. Sam knows when we need to have a _talk_. Sam knows when I need him to tell me I'm being a jerk and when I need him to sit and listen and just _be there_. Sam also knows that I don't know a damn thing about this, and I'll do whatever it takes to get him to forgive me for doing such a miserable job of being a big brother, but he has to tell me what it's going to take.

Sam knows. And he's sitting there drinking what looks like cranberry juice and pretending he doesn't know me.

And suddenly enough's enough. I know we screwed up – damn it all, I know _I _screwed up – but after everything we've been through together, the _least_ he owes me is a normal conversation, a conversation that doesn't involve werewolves, hunting or badly injured baby brothers. I mean, one messed-up year can't undo the twenty-six that went before it. If this is my comeuppance for telling Sam I didn't know if I could forgive him...

Well, I can't say it's unfair, not now that I know what it did to Sammy. (I'd love to say it's partly down to Bobby and Cas for not understanding Sam, but what's the point of lying to myself? Sam wouldn't have cared what anybody else said if he'd only been sure of _me_.) So, yeah, I screwed up, let Sammy down, all of that.

But if he thinks I'm going to let it go at that, then Lucifer's managed to knock out whatever sense he had.

I put down my empty shot glass – not too sure how many I've had, but Sam can drive. I lay down enough money to cover my drinks and Sam's girly red stuff and go for my brother.

He looks up when I get close to him, but he doesn't have time to react before I slam the book shut and heave him unceremoniously to his feet.

"Dean?"

"We're leaving."

Sam grabs the book, which I would just as soon abandon in the bar because when we get back to the motel I don't want him fobbing off a conversation with some pansy excuse like _research_, and takes a step back. "Dean, what –?"

"Come on, Sammy. We're leaving." I consider grabbing him and hauling him out by force, but although he's still a little stiff from what the demons did to him, he's bigger and heavier than I am and I don't think I want to test whether I can overpower him if he really decides to kick up a fuss. "Get moving. We have stuff to do."

"Like _what_? The job isn't due for another _week_."

"Other stuff. Come on, Sam, don't be such a pain in the ass. We have to go. I'll even let you drive."

"Dean –"

I lean in close. "You don't come with me now, Sammy, I'll have to prolong this argument, and then all these people are going to think we're having a lovers' spat."

"_Dean!_"

I shrug and grin. "Easy way or hard way, kiddo. Your choice."

Sam glares bloody murder, but he follows me out of the bar.

* * *

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	8. Learn to Forgive Yourself

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to Cainchan, cold kagome, jensengirl4eva, BranchSuper, Mrs Winchester, McB, brookesarahborden, Twinchester Angel and Kynstar for the reviews.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Learn to Forgive Yourself**

"Fine, Dean we're back. Now _what_?"

"I need to talk to you."

"And it couldn't have waited half an hour?"

"Since when are _you_ so eager to sit in bars all night? I'd've thought you'd be _glad_ I pulled you out." Then I shake my head. This is ridiculous. I didn't drag Sam back to the motel room just to get into an argument with him. "Sit down, Sammy." Sam frowns at me suspiciously, but he lowers himself onto the edge of his bed. I watch him for a moment, then sit next to him, close but not quite touching. "Tell me what the problem is, Sam."

"Problem? What are you talking about?"

"Why won't you talk to me?"

"I'm talking to you right _now_,Dean."

"You know what I mean. I don't know what you're mad about, but I'd've thought a big girl like you would know that there's no point clamming up about it. Just _tell _me and –"

"And _what_? You'll fix it?" Sam sounds uncharacteristically bitter. "Yeah, well, too little, too late, Dean."

It feels like something's got a vice-grip on my chest. Sam's not going to let me off the hook. What the hell do I say? He's _still_ being a lot nicer to me than I was to him in the year leading up to Stull Cemetery. Maybe this is what I get for being such a jerk when Sam practically begged me to trust him, but it still hurts. My brother never gave up on me – _never_ gave up on me, no matter _what_ I did to him – so if he's finally thrown in the towel, maybe I _do_ deserve –

"I'm sorry."

I stare at Sam in disbelief. "What are _you_ sorry for?"

"I shouldn't have said that. Wasn't your fault, Dean. Just the way things were. There was nothing you could have done."

"So that's _it_? We're going to leave it at that?"

"I'm sorry." Sam shrugs and then sets his shoulders the way he does when he's _really_ trying not to cry. "I tried, Dean, I really did." His voice is too steady; it's got that hard, brittle quality of glass that's about to shatter. "It didn't work out, just like everything else I tried to do." He doesn't sound bitter now, only resigned, and that's almost worse.

"No," I find myself saying. "No, Sammy, come on. I know our lives were screwed up, and I was a jerk, and everything pretty much sucked, but you are _not_ giving up on me."

Sam just looks at me. His eyes say it all. They're dark and afraid and more than anything else they're _hopeless_. I swallow convulsively. I've seen eyes like that before – seen them on Cas, seen them on Bobby, on Dad – hell, I've even seen them in the mirror. But I have never, _never_ seen _that_ look on _Sam's_ face, and it's so wrong that it makes my ribs ache. This is Sam. Sam doesn't give up. Sam _doesn't_ –

"I'm sorry," he says again, softly. "I just can't go through it all again, Dean."

I have a feeling he's talking about more than just our miserable lives after Lucifer's cage was opened, but this isn't the time to chase that thought. If I do, he's only going to shut me out again, and that's not going to help either of us.

He's afraid of _something_: that much is clear. I don't know what it is, I don't know if I can fix it, but there's one thing I _do_ know how to do. It makes me feel horrible, because Sam doesn't really deserve to be manipulated by the one person he trusts – now there's a little voice in my head saying, "_Does_ he trust you?" and no matter how hard I try I can't push it down entirely – but it's the only way that I can think of to make him talk.

So I look at him, really _look_ at him. He flushes, but he meets my eyes.

"_Please, Sammy_," I beg. "Just... please. _Please_."

Sam glares at me, but I know I've got him. After a moment, he sighs heavily and says, "What do you want me to do?"

_Yes!_ _Finally_ something's working out right. Sam's not the only one who can do the eyes... OK, _he_ can work them on just about anyone he meets, and _I_ can only do it to _him_, but what the hell. The important thing is that I can do it when it matters.

I'd like to say _Tell me how to fix it_, but this is one time when I know I can't. This one time I can't give Sam the responsibility of ensuring that chick-flick moments happen and apologies get made. _This_ time... This time I need to figure it out myself. It's the least I owe him. All I can ask is –

"Talk to me." Sam raises his eyebrows and I add, "Answer some questions for me, Sammy." I don't insult us both by qualifying that with "truthfully".

There's a pause, just long enough to make me nervous, and then Sam nods.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

"All right." I get up and move to one of the chairs to give Sam space. "All right..." I consider my first question. I don't want to scare the kid or make him withdraw again, but I _do_ need answers, for Sam's sake as much as for my own. "Do you trust me?"

Sam eyes me for a moment before he says, "With what?"

Oh _God_. I didn't realize how much I was hoping for an unqualified _Yes_, how desperate I was for it, until –

But I was the one who raised it. And now that Sam's asked the question, I don't know what I expect him to trust me with. There was a time when I would have said, "Everything," but that was also a time when Sam wouldn't even have needed to ask because he trusted me absolutely.

I'm about to start making a mental list, but it's so stupid that I stop myself. Whether it's waking him up when he starts having nightmares or watching his back on a hunt or simply bandaging scraped knees like I've been doing since he learnt to walk, there is _nothing_ that Sam shouldn't be able to trust me with.

So I say, "Everything."

"Oh." Sam looks a little startled. "_Everything?_"

"Everything," I confirm. When a minute passes with no response, "Sammy?"

"I'm _sorry_."

I was expecting that. I tell myself that firmly. Sam's not an idiot, and any normal person would have issues after what we went through. I _was _expecting that... But it still makes my heart sink. Before I can start wallowing in self-pity, though, Sam looks at me, so much like a little kid who's just been told that there's no Santa Claus that I force myself not to think about it. I'm going to fix this, because a situation in which Sammy doesn't have complete faith in his big brother can't exist. I won't _let _it.

"Pissed at me, Sammy?" I ask gently. Sam's expression changes to bewilderment, and I explain, "You know, telling you I didn't trust you, throwing away the amulet you gave me..."

I don't know if I imagined Sam's tiny flinch. He's turned away from me now, staring into his lap as though he's fascinated by the fabric of his jeans. At last he shakes his head. "Not any more."

"But you _were_?"

"A little."

"When?"

"When you did it."

"Why not now?" Because I _know_ I hurt Sam with that stunt with the amulet – I hate myself when I think about it, but that was my freaking _intention _at the time – and I know better than anyone not to underestimate Sam's capacity to hold a grudge.

Sam shrugs. "Enduring Lucifer that long... Gave me more of a sense of perspective."

I don't even want to think about how twisted it is that I have Lucifer to thank for the fact that my brother isn't angry that I threw away the most important thing he ever gave me. I don't want to think about it, because when I start thinking about the things he might have done to _give_ Sammy that sense of perspective, it makes me want to turn back time and let the whole freaking world go to hell if it'll mean sparing my baby brother that pain.

The next question should be either _What don't you trust me with? _or _What did he do to you? _but I don't dare ask either. Not yet.

There's something else I need to know, though. I hesitate over it, wondering if it'll upset Sam, but it has to be done.

"Don't get mad at me, Sam." Sam looks surprised, then suspicious. "I mean it. Please."

"OK... I won't. What is it?"

"While... while you were out, the blue-eyed chick told me something about... about you and a crossroads demon, six months ago in Arkansas."

"Oh." The expression on Sam's face is a mixture of guilt and fear and frustration that makes me want to reach out and hug him. "What... what did she tell you?"

I feel a surge of gratitude that he didn't brush it off with _Demons lie_.

"She said – she said Lucifer sent a crossroads demon up to drag you back to Hell, to the cage. The demon offered you a deal and you almost accepted but Gabriel showed up just in time to stop you. Oh, yeah, so Gabriel's alive." Sam's quiet, staring at his hands. "Sammy?"

"Do you _have_ to know?"

He's giving me a way out, and it would be easy, _so_ easy, to stop now. Sam's talking to me again, we're good, I don't really have to delve into things that are only going to be incredibly painful for both of us –

_Yes, I do. _I thought we were good a couple of days ago, but all it took was one misplaced question to make everything go sideways. In a lot of ways we're better than we were _before_, but we're still not good, and until we face what happened we're not going to be. It sucked. It's going to be awful to relive it, awful for me, awful for Sam. Tough. Awful or not, it's happening.

"Yeah," I tell him. "Yeah, Sammy. I have to know."

Sam bends his head, refusing to meet my eyes. "You have to understand, Dean. I thought it would help you." I force down the furious protest. "She – it – offered to give you everything you wanted. For... well, for the rest of your life."

"Everything I wanted?" I demand hoarsely, not sure whether to hug Sammy or hit him. How could he be so _stupid_? "_Everything?_"

"Well, except one thing." Sam shoots me a nervous sideways glance. I don't have to ask what that one thing is. "I was tempted, Dean. Can you blame me? You would've had Mom and Dad back, and the life you've always wanted, and – well, _everything_."

"Except for that _one_ thing?"

"One thing that you're better off without."

"Sam, I don't want to hit you, but you say that one more time and I will _not_ be responsible for the consequences. You're supposed to be _smart_. When are you going to get it in your head that I am _not_ going to be better off without you?"

"Oh, like you've never thought that. I know –"

"You don't know a damn thing, Sam! You know what it was like for me, those days when all I could think about was my brother in Hell suffering tortures I couldn't even imagine? And all because of me, because I wasn't good enough to find an alternative to that stupid kamikaze plan of yours? You have any _idea_ what that was _like_?"

"Actually, yeah, Dean, I kind of _do_ have an idea what that's like."

Sam glares at me and I flush guiltily. _Of course he knows what it's like, you idiot! What were you thinking?_ But this isn't the time to let up. We're getting this sorted out no matter what it takes.

"Fine, so you do know. Then how could you _possibly_ imagine that I'd be happier without you? I mean, what did you think I was _doing_? Playing Happy Families and having barbecues and forgetting all about the fact that my brother was in Lucifer's _cage_?"

"You _promised_ –"

"I promised I wouldn't try to poke holes in the cage to let you out and I promised I'd find Lisa. I don't remember _ever_ promising that I'd stop worrying about you."

"So, what, you were going to be miserable for the rest of eternity?"

"What would _you_ have done?"

Sam opens his mouth to retort, pauses for thought, and sighs. "I know. I know, I'm sorry. I just... I wanted you to be _happy_, Dean. That was the whole _point_. You'd been through so much."

"Well, if you wanted me to be happy, Sam, the way to manage it was to come to Lisa's, knock at the door and say, 'Hi, Dean. I'm alive.' _That_ would've made me happy. That's what _made_ me happy in the end. Right now I'm having serious doubts about your sanity, but I'm _still_ happier than I ever was when you were gone. Come on, I _know_ you're not stupid. Don't you _get _it?"

"If I hadn't come back," Sam says unhappily, "you'd still have been with Lisa and Ben."

I must not yell. Yelling at Sam is always counterproductive. Yelling at Sam will result in him yelling back and start a fight that could last days. I _must not_ yell.

"Sammy," I say, satisfied with how even my voice is, "that's the _dumbest_ thing you've ever said in your life."

"_Dean_ –"

"Don't _Dean_ me. We've _seen_ how hard it is to leave it all behind. It never works. Mom tried it. That friend of Dad's, that Elkins guy, _he_ tried it. I tried it. _You _tried it when you went to Stanford. Eventually it catches up with you. And even if it didn't..." I take a deep breath. "Even if I could leave my old life behind and have a fresh start with Lisa, I wouldn't want it. Not if that meant leaving you behind, too." Sam's _finally_ looking like he understands what I'm talking about, so I muster up the courage to ask the question that's been bothering me since he came back. "Sammy, what did he do to you?"

Sam looks up at me, eyes too bright, and I know that this time I'm going to get an answer.

* * *

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	9. The Devil Never Lies

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to jensengirl4eva, QuierdoMusic, Nyx Ro, Jessica, cold kagome, Kynstar, Zith888, BranchSuper, Twinchester Angel and Cainchan for the reviews.

* * *

**Chapter 9: The Devil Never Lies**

"He told you I'd be happier without you?" I prompt, trying to make it easier for him.

Sam shakes his head miserably. "No... I mean, yeah, he did, but a lot of that was _before_. And, I don't know, I think at that point he was just... you know... sorting through my thoughts."

"_You_ thought I'd be happier without you, and he was just echoing that." Sam flashes me a guilty look. "I'm _not_ blaming you, Sammy. You should've known better, yeah, but then _I_ should have realized what you were thinking. I know how that freak mind of yours works... Don't get me wrong, we _are_ going to have words about that. Later."

Sam grins in wry acknowledgement. "Well, it wasn't _just_ that. He was messing with my mind... Trying to make sure I couldn't fight him."

"But you _did_ fight him." Try as I might, I can't keep a note of pride out of my voice. "You fought him, Sammy, and you _won_. You defeated Lucifer. Has to count for something, right?"

"_We_ defeated Lucifer." He meets my eyes for just a moment before he goes on. "It was different down there, though. He was... I guess by then he knew enough to know how to get to me." Sam shivers and wraps his arms around himself. Seeing him that scared, that lost, does horrible things to my gut.

I lean forward and grab his shoulders.

"Hey. I'm here. You're safe. And any demon he sends to drag you back down there is going to have to go through me." There's a hitched breath, and then Sam pulls away. I let him. He's going to need comforting when this is over, but right now what he needs is for me to let him stay strong and keep talking. "Go on."

"There weren't any other demons – they couldn't get into the cage, I guess. Or maybe they could've come in but then they'd have been stuck inside. Doesn't matter. Point is, they weren't there. Just him."

"What did he do? Did he... you know... the hell-fire and the sickles and all that?"

"Physical torture?"

There's something about the matter-of-fact way Sam says it that makes my stomach clench. In Hell, _physical torture_ is like all your worst nightmares of pain balled together and drilled through your skull in an agonized eternity. In Lucifer's hands, I'm sure it's bad enough to make that agonized eternity seem like a walk in the park. And if Sam can say it so lightly, then I don't even want to think about what _else_ that son of a bitch did to him.

I have to, of course.

"Did he, Sammy?"

"Well, yeah... I think that kind of goes with the territory down there. But that wasn't the point; or anyway it wasn't _Lucifer's_ point. He wouldn't let me get off _that_ lightly." Sam looks at me, and it's sorrow and fear and loss, and I don't know what to say because those eyes do _not_ belong on my baby brother. "He showed me... everything. Everything I did to... to hurt you."

This is getting weirder by the minute.

"You mean..." I hesitate; I don't want him to take this the wrong way. I am _not_ blaming him, but I have to know. "You mean... Ruby... Stanford... all that?"

"That too."

"What else?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. I've been furious with Sam plenty of times, because the kid does tend to do some stupid things, but _hurt_? Sammy has to do something drastic for me to feel a wimpy emotion like that.

"Everything. Every _single_ thing I ever did."

Oh. This doesn't sound good. This doesn't sound good at _all_. "Sam, what do you mean?"

"I mean _everything_, Dean!" Sam sounds like he's trying not to cry. "Like the... the play, when I was in school. You came to see it."

Yeah, I remember. I remember cheering louder than any of the proud parents – although I threatened to eviscerate anyone who told Sam that – and grinning like an idiot whenever Sam appeared on stage. Fortunately the hot chick next to me thought it was cute, and it resulted in a happy evening two days later.

"I had fun at the play, Sam," I point out. "You were a cute little kid back then – _short_, though –"

"That's not the _point_, Dean," Sam bursts out. "If you hadn't come to see it, you would've been home, and watching TV, and the news would've been on because no other channel was working at that crappy motel, and then you would've seen that two hikers were mauled by a suspected bear in Oregon, and then when Dad went on that job in Colorado when he left us alone for a month and those other people were attacked in Nebraska..." I gape at him as he keeps talking. Sam _can't_ be serious. This is ridiculous. Even with Sam's unlimited capacity for guilt and his ability to blame himself for things that he could in no way have prevented, this is ridiculous. "... And _then_ you wouldn't have been drunk when you were walking home from that cute librarian's house at five in the morning, so that mugger would never have got the jump on you."

"We done?" I manage to ask. "Or you want to find a way to blame the extinction of the dinosaurs on that school play? You really _should _have been a lawyer, Sam."

"Dean, I'm serious –"

"So am I! Do you have any idea how stupid that is? There about a million what-ifs in there. You don't know how things would have turned out –"

"_Yes, I do!_" Sam's vehemence stops me short. "I _know_, Dean. He showed me."

"Who? Lucifer? You're going to believe him?"

"He never lies."

"_Everyone_ lies, Sam."

"Not Lucifer." At my sceptical glance, Sam shrugs. "Look, he was in my head, Dean. I know what he was trying to do. He doesn't tell the truth out of a sense of – of _fairness_ or _virtue_ or anything like that. He just likes it better when he can mess with people without having to lie. You know... more fun. Lasts longer."

"You have it right there, Sammy. He does it to _mess_ with people. He was trying to mess with you."

"Doesn't change the fact that it's true."

I try another tack. "OK, maybe it's true. That doesn't mean anything, Sam. If I'd believed you about Gordon the first time we met him, he might never have used your blood to tempt Lenore. It's not like you had any idea that someone would try to mug me five years later."

"But it wasn't just that, Dean. It was _everything_. Everything I _ever_ did beginning on the day I was born..." Sam makes a sound that's either a laugh or a sob. "He let me pick things after a while. I tried to find something, Dean, but there was nothing. There was nothing I did, ever, in all my life, that didn't... didn't harm you somehow. Don't you _get _it?" His look is heartbroken pleading, and I _swear_ I'm going to make Lucifer pay. "You _know_ you'd be happier without me. Like you told Cas."

_Told Cas?_ I _seriously _should've stayed in bed this morning. Sam would've thought I was sick, and he would've stopped sulking on his own, _without_ any need for this. I mean, just when I think that Sam's logic can't possibly make any _less_ sense –

"What did I tell Cas, Sam?" Sam's looking at me in disbelief, and suddenly memory comes back and my heart goes shooting up into my throat. "Sammy?" _Please not that please not that please please –_

"You told him you were happier alone. And _especially_ good without me because you spent too much time worrying and you had – you had more fun with him in twenty-four hours than you had with me in years and you'd been so chained to your family and –"

I don't hear the rest of what Sam's saying, because the _no no no no _in my head drowns it all out. _Not that. Not that, not that, anything but that._ And how the _hell_ does Sam know about it, anyway? How does he know the _exact _freaking _words_? There was a _reason_ I told Cas never to repeat that particular conversation to him – I mean, I was mad, but I never wanted to hurt the kid –

_Never?_ the voice in my head taunts. _What about after you and Sam got back from Zachariah's screwed-up mindgames in Heaven and you –_

_OK, fine, maybe that once, but –_

_But he was never supposed to find out? Is that it? So let me get this straight. It's wrong for Sam to choose a demon over you – even when he thought he was doing it for YOUR good – but it's fine for you to choose an angel over your brother because you have more fun that way? Was that just because he was an angel?_

_I didn't mean it!_

_Not even a little? It's understandable, I mean the kid was getting on your nerves –_

_SHUT UP! I didn't mean it!_

_Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn't matter, Dean. It isn't yourself that you have to convince. You want to try telling Sam about how you didn't mean it?_

I can't meet Sam's eyes. I _can't_. It's just too difficult. I open my mouth, but instead of the apology and explanation that I'm composing in my head, what comes out is, "How do you _know_ about that?"

_Oh, just bloody BRILLIANT, Dean! Could you possibly make this any worse?_

Sam's voice is heavy. "It doesn't matter. Dean, look, it's OK. I understand. I screwed up." He hesitates, clearly waiting for me to say something. I want to, I _desperately_ want to, but my brain's seized up. After a minute, Sam shakes his head. "Really, Dean, it's fine. I'm fine. I get it. We don't have to do this." He gets to his feet. "I'm going to take a walk."

"_No!_" The thought and the word tumble out together and I scramble to stand. "No, Sam, please. Don't go."

"I'm not _leaving_, Dean. We still have to track down that werewolf. I'll be back. I'm just going to take a walk."

He's trying to sound casual, but his voice is shaking, and I just _know_ he's trying to get away from me so he can have a breakdown someplace where nobody can see.

Someplace where _I_ can't see. Someplace where I can't hurt him.

I grab his arm and push him back down to the bed. Six-foot-five of muscle and he goes down unresisting. He's sitting on the bed, looking up at me warily, and I know I have one chance. We're close to what's bothering Sam now. Either I stop here and start fixing things, or I make him go on and risk having something come up that I can't fix.

_You promised Sammy. You promised him that if he told you what the problem was, you'd fix it. WELL?_

Sam's dropped his gaze. Now I'm staring down at the top of his head. I have literally _never_ felt this terrified in my life before. If Sam doesn't believe me – no, no, can't think that way. Sam's going to believe me. Sam _has_ to. Sammy _always_ believes his big brother, so if he won't believe me then that means he doesn't think –

_No._

"Sammy." My voice is shaking so much I'm sure he's not going to be able to understand a word. "Sam, _look_ at me. _Please._" Sam raises his head, but there are shadows in his eyes, and _what_ freaking can of worms have I gone and opened? "What else do you know?"

"Everything." Somewhere in Hell, Lucifer is probably laughing right now. "Everything I did, everything you did... I know about your deal with Death, Dean."

"Sam –"

"I'm not blaming you. I get it." _No_, I want to say, but my voice is failing me. _No, you don't bloody get it, Sam! I may not be the best brother, but I'm not that horrible! _"I get why you didn't tell me." _No, you don't, damn it! _"I wouldn't have trusted me, either. And, well..." He shrugs, looking so much like a frightened four-year-old trying to act brave and grown up that – "I get it. You'd be happier without me. I know that."

Now my nerve's failing me. How's that for poetic justice? Dean Winchester, best hunter in the world, laughs in the face of death, makes jokes with the devil on his tail, but put him in front of a brother who has good reason to be pissed at him and just watch that legendary bravado drain away.

I take a step back.

_Happy now, Dean? Just say the wrong thing – shouldn't be too hard, considering your track record – and Sammy'll be gone after this job. Never have to worry about the son of a bitch again. Just tell him –_

_SHUT UP!_

_Is that what you're going to tell him? Doesn't work too well as an apology._

Oh _God_. There's nothing, is there? There is absolutely _nothing_ I can say to make this right. I had my chances, back when Sammy was ready to ignore every single thing I did or said to hurt him if I only stopped treating him like some dark creature that couldn't be trusted or gave him the tiniest sign that I still cared about him. I had my chances, and I let them go because I was so _bloody_ overconfident, so sure of myself, so _freaking_ certain that I would never have to pick up the pieces of our relationship because Sam would always be willing to do it.

I know enough, now, to be able to tell that this isn't going to be a quick fix. Even if Sam is willing to try to work things out – something I'm not remotely certain of – it's going to take time and effort. Somehow – _somehow_ – I have to make him believe that it's worth it and that this time I'm not going to screw up. If I thought begging would help I'd get down on my knees and grovel, but...

I don't know what to do.

I have a feeling that telling Sam he's wrong and I'm _not_ happier without him isn't going to help, and there's only so far _I'm sorry_ and _I didn't mean it_ can get me. Yeah, it all needs to be said, but not now. _Now_ he won't believe me – why would he? – but he'll say he does and insist that we never raise the issue again.

Not happening.

Sam's still looking at me, more of the fear leaking into his eyes. _Damn it._ I can't _think_ with him looking at me like that, I can't think about what to next, all I can think is _Sam's scared of me._ My baby brother is _scared_ of me, and the worst part is that I don't even blame him. I don't know if I can trust _myself_ with Sam anymore.

I can't muster up the courage to go near him, not even to thump his shoulder or ruffle his hair like I've done more times than I can count. He's scared of me, and if he flinches when I touch him I'm going to hate myself forever.

There are a hundred things I need to ask.

_I know you don't trust me with everything, but do you trust me with anything at all? _

_Why did you say no to that crossroads demon?_

_You don't hate me, do you, Sam?_

I can't. I just can't bring myself to do it. This has been a long enough night, it's a miracle that we're still on speaking terms, and I don't want to push my luck anymore. I should just persuade him to give us a chance and call it a night as soon as he says yes... Except that, when it comes to Sammy, and especially lately, my mouth seems unconnected to my brain.

"Sam, why'd you come back?" _Well played, idiot. That's not pushing your luck at all, is it? _"I mean – not that I wasn't happy to see you – but _why_? You could've sent Bobby or one of the other hunters, they could've helped me."

Sam slumps, his shoulders sagging and the brittle fear in his eyes replaced by... I don't know what it is. Resignation? Pain? It makes me want to hug him even more, but I _can't_. I can't have him push me away –

_Oh, yes, I can. _The thoughtfloods into my head with blinding clarity. It doesn't matter if Sam pushes me away. It doesn't matter if he uses his mojo to pin me to the wall. I know what he needs, whether or not he's willing to admit it. That's my job, that's _always _been my job, and I may have sucked at it lately but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop _trying_.

I crouch in front of Sam and put a hand on his shoulder. For a moment it seems like he'll pull away; then he gives in and relaxes.

"Sammy?" I prompt. "Why?"

"Because." Sam's voice is more breath than words, and even from less than a foot away I have to strain to hear him. But there's something achingly familiar about his tone, something that's warmth and peace and a hundred other feelings I can't identify. "You're still my big brother."

* * *

There. It's out.

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And I hope everyone enjoys this week's episode, too!


	10. Tis Not that I Love Caesar Less

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to cold kagome, yenneffer, Katy M VT, QuierdoMusic, BranchSuper, Kynstar, Caichan and Twincester Angel for the reviews.

* * *

**Chapter 10: 'Tis Not that I Love Caesar Less**

Back to normal? Not really. Even I'm not stupid enough to believe that. But Sam's given me something I can work with.

I spent half an hour last night promising the idiot that I _wasn't_ happier without him and pointing out all the times I might have been injured or killed if he _hadn't_ been around to save me. I was so desperate to get him to smile that I even told him things I've never told _anyone_ – like the nights after Mom died when the only way I could sleep was with Sammy cuddled in my arms, warm and soft and comforting. Or when Dad was away and –

What the hell am I doing? Bad enough that I had a chick-flick moment in the middle of the night. I'm not going to _relive_ it in the morning.

Anyway, the point is that we're... well, not OK, but better.

Sam's finishing his research – not that _I _understand what's left to finish. It seems to me the kid knows everything there is to know about every werewolf that has ever lived in the entire history of the human race. If there were any shapeshifting velociraptors terrorizing the hell out of prehistoric swamps, he probably knows about them, too.

But seeing him with his laptop open and a half-dozen printouts spread out on the table is a reassuring sight. Even now, more than two months after he's back, there are times when I can't entirely believe it and I'm afraid that any minute I'm going to wake up and discover Gabriel's been messing with my head or something like that. No matter how things are between us, Sam's _alive_ and Sam's _here_ and I don't have the strong urge to get active with a machete whenever I hear someone order a vanilla latte.

My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I take a look at the display – _Lisa_.

I leave the room for the call. It's not like I have anything to say that Sam can't hear – in fact, it would be _fun_ to talk in front of Sam and see how much I can make him blush before he runs for it – but he tends to look guilty whenever Lisa and Ben are mentioned, and tell me that he'll totally understand if I want to leave.

"Hey, Lisa."

"Hey, Dean... How are you? Finish that job yet?"

"No, not really. Sammy's still doing some research. We'll probably hit it in a couple of days. How's Ben?"

"He's fine." There's a pause. "He was asking about you." I don't know if I'm imagining the accusation in her voice. "So... How long is this job going to take?"

"If everything goes according to plan, just the one night... We'll probably hit it tomorrow."

"What are you doing after that?"

There it is. The question I was dreading.

I never understood why Sam gave up on the normal life when he did... Not until now. It's too... _difficult_. More than just difficult, it's freaking _impossible_. Lisa is great, Ben's an incredible kid, and I really _hate_ having to do this to them.

"Sammy'll find another job for us."

"Oh. You don't think you could... Maybe... Come here for a couple of weeks? Maybe in time for Christmas? Ben... Well... Ben wants to see you. And... So do I."

"Lisa –"

"And Sam, too, of course. It's so ridiculous that you're so close to your brother and I barely even know him."

"Lisa, I'd love to, but –"

"Oh _God_. Here it comes."

"Lisa, please. It's not like that. There are... things... we have to do, and there are probably other things after Sam. If we came there it would put you and Ben at risk. I couldn't stand to have you get hurt because of me. You have to understand – you don't know what's out there."

"Well..." She sounds hesitant, now, and a little scared. It's making me nervous, because that means she thinks I'm _really_ not going to like what she has to say. "If the _things_ are only after Sam –"

"No." The word's out without thought. I love her, I love Ben, I really want to see them again, but... _no_. I can't leave Sam alone, not so soon, not at Christmas, not without being _certain_ that he won't go and do something stupid while I'm gone. Besides... We haven't had a _fun_ Christmas together since before Stanford. First Dad was missing, then the whole destiny crap was eating at Sam, then there was my year running out, and then... Well. Bottom line, I can't do it. "Lisa, I'm sorry, I really am. I can't leave Sam on his own now."

"Have you even discussed it with him?"

"No, but –"

"Sam probably wants you to be happy. If you told him, he'd probably _want_ you to come back for Christmas. He's a big boy, Dean. He'll take care of himself."

I don't blame Lisa for saying that. I really don't. How do I explain to her that my brother, twenty-eight years old, smart, strong, deadeye with a shotgun, can't be left alone for a week and trusted to still be _alive_ at the end of it? It sounds absurd in _my_ head, and I'm _used _to Sam.

I have to try to explain, though, because I really do want her to understand.

"Lisa, look, I know what you're thinking, and I really do want to see you and Ben. _Really._ But I can't leave Sam now – he's been through a lot and he _needs_ me now."

"Oh, come _on_, Dean. I saw what _you_ went through last year. You couldn't sleep a single night through without pills, you were falling apart – and all the time Sam was _alive_. And you're willing to just _forgive_ him for putting you through that? If he got by without you for a year, he can get by without you for a couple of weeks."

"Lisa, I'm sorry."

She sighs. "Never mind. I guess I'll see you when I see you."

"Yeah. Umm –"

"Bye, Dean."

_Click._

_That_ went well.

Sam's still at it when I go back, so immersed in his research that he doesn't even look up when I open the door. I hope he didn't notice I left... or, if he did, that he figured I just went out to get some air or something.

"Was that Lisa?"

That's my Sammy. Doesn't miss a single damn trick. Pain-in-the-ass.

"Yeah." Not that I don't want to deny it – it's likely to lead to a less-than-comfortable conversation – but we promised each other there'd be no more lies. Not outright lies.

"She OK?"

"She's fine." I'd leave it at that if I could, but the way the kid seems to know things now, it'll only come back later to bite me in the ass at the most inconvenient time imaginable. "She wanted to know if we could go by... You know, spend Christmas with her and the kid."

Sam looks up. "I can't –"

"I know, Sammy," I interrupt, to forestall any attempts to persuade me to go. "I told her that. Now get back to work."

Sam looks at me for a moment more, hazel eyes unreadable, before he goes back to his research. It looks like we're not going to have an argument about me leaving him on his own – thank _God_.

I wish I could get back to _my_ work as easily as Sam gets back to his. Of course, it would help if my work were something other than cleaning and polishing the guns for the fourth time in three days – hey, life is _slow_ when you don't have anything to do – because that leaves me free to think.

The thing is – and maybe this sounds strange – the thing is that I'm not feeling _that_ bad about not being able to go to Lisa's for Christmas. Whatever. Can't go, too many evil beasts, life is tough. No point crying about it. You'd think that would be the end of it, and for most of my life it _would_ have been. But things have changed.

For one thing, I've discovered that _no point crying about it_ doesn't always work. That's what I told myself every second of every day that Sammy was gone – that I _thought_ Sammy was gone – and it didn't make me feel remotely better. Lisa helped, a little, but only sometimes, and the rest of the time all I could do was agonize over how I'd failed to save Sam – _again_. And – well – yeah, OK, that's not unexpected. I mean, it's not exactly a secret that I'm not always entirely rational when it comes to Sam. And not being able to spend Christmas with a girl ranks nowhere near seeing your little brother sacrifice himself to eternal torture on the scale of horrible things that'll scar your soul for life.

Still...

Shouldn't I feel a _little_ worse about it? No way I'm going to leave Sam on his own, of course, not _now_ – but shouldn't I at least have had to _consider_ the decision a little more?

This is stupid. I'm Dean Winchester. I don't agonize over my feelings. And Sam's giving me enough to worry about without my adding to it on my own account.

I sneak a glance at him. He doesn't seem to be brooding, but the way he's been the past few weeks I can tell it won't take much to start him off again. He heard me out last night, he assured me he believed I don't want to be rid of him and he swore that if the crossroads demon shows up again he won't consider _any_ deal... Still, I can't be entirely certain. Sam's not very good at keeping promises when he starts imagining that breaking them will make things better for me.

"So how do we kill the thing? Silver bullets?"

"They should work." Sam scribbles something on one of the sheets of paper he's got in front of him. Seriously, if anyone ever gathered Sam's notes and turned them into a journal, it would be even longer than Dad's. "But we'll have to be prepared for the fact that it might not turn up as a wolf."

"You mean it'll be in human form?"

"Not necessarily. According to lore, early werewolves turned into vampires after they died. That's probably not true – what's likely is that they could shift into any animal form they wanted to, so when somebody tried to put some silver in them they'd turn into something small and mobile – like a bat – and escape."

"Great," I grumble. "Just _great_. Can they shift into other human forms, too?"

"There's no record of it, but we have to assume that they can." Sam makes a face. "Shouldn't be impossible – we've hunted shifters, we've hunted werewolves, come to that we've also hunted vampires. It'll just be a bit more complicated than usual."

"So what happens when we kill it?"

"We burn the body. That should cut off the... the _bloodline_ is what the book calls it. All the werewolves it's infected, all the werewolves _they_ have infected – well, they won't _stop_ being werewolves, but they'll stop being infectious."

"They'll still change at the full moon?"

"Yeah. Still change, still kill people, still have to be hunted. But with the current generation of werewolves, it'll stop."

"If we manage to kill this one."

"If we do," Sam agrees. He turns to the window –

And all the colour drains from his face.

"Sammy? What's wrong?"

"It's _her_."

I turn to look. The only movement in the parking lot outside is a car just pulling in. There's a woman driving, fortyish, short-cropped dark hair. She's classy – _really_ classy, and the car she's driving is a red Beetle convertible. _Definitely_ not the kind of woman you'd expect to find in a cheap motel in the middle of the morning.

"Who is she, Sam?"

"The demon." He turns to me, and the look on his face is pure _Sammy_. It's love and trust and blind belief, and it gives me confidence in a way nothing else can. "She's here."

I don't ask how Sam knows. He's sure, and that's enough for me.

"It's OK, Sam." I glance around the room, making sure there's no entry point that doesn't have a line of runes across it in Sam's neat script. "There's no way she can come in. We'll be fine. She's not going to get you again."

"She won't try to come in now. But she knows we're here. She'll make her move later, probably when we've got our hands full with the werewolf."

I _have_ to ask. Sam seems very familiar with the bitch's methods.

"She attacked you before, Sammy?" No answer. "_Sammy?_"

"I've come across her."

"When?" No answer. "Sam, don't make me repeat every question a dozen times. _When did you come across her?_"

Sam's face is suddenly apprehensive. "She's followed me around a bit since... since I came back. She..." He ducks his head, seeming _very_ interested in the toes of his shoes. When he speaks again, his voice is tiny and nervous. "She was the crossroads demon who... who offered me the... the deal."

Oh.

_Oh._

_Bitch! Demon bitch, hurting Sammy and upsetting him and trying to take him away from me! When I get my hands on her –_

"How is she so far from her crossroads, then?"

_Who cares? I'm sending her straight back to hell! After I've plunged her into a tub of holy water and spoken the name of God –_

"Gabriel exorcised her. She came back."

_Better yet, I'll make her speak the name of God. I'll make her recite it from now till Christmas – no, till NEXT Christmas._

"Well, she's not going to be back for long."

_Then I will find the most painful exorcism ritual known to man._

"Dean, no –"

_Or maybe I'll carve her up with Ruby's knife. Slowly. Over several days._

"Dean, _no_!" Sam's grabbing my arm, shaking my shoulder, and the expression on his face is borderline panic. "Don't be stupid! You said it yourself, we're safe in here. You're only going to get yourself killed if you go after her!"

That's when I realize that I'm almost at the door, holding Ruby's knife. And that Sam, idiot that he is, is taking absolutely _no_ pains to avoid getting cut with it as he hauls me physically back.

"_Sam!_"

I shove him off – or I _try_ to. It's embarrassing. He doesn't even sway on his feet, he just grunts and absorbs the force without slowing down. I mean, it's true that I'm swatting at him one-handed because I don't want to drop the knife, but _still_. _This_ is the Sasquatch who went down with no fight at all when I pushed him onto his bed last night.

"Sam! I'm not going anywhere."

"Dean –"

"Sammy. I know." I know you don't want me to go after her alone. I know you're scared for me. I know how miserable you'd be if something happened to me because I'd feel exactly the same way, and _damn_ it, Sam, I wish I could be certain you believed that. "I won't go after her alone. But I'm not going to stand by and let her have you, either. When we're done with the werewolf, we're going to find out everything there is to know about this demon, and then we're going to _take her down_. Got that?"

* * *

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	11. Silver Doesn't Solve Everything

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to cold kagome, jensengirl4eva, BranchSuper, SandyDee84, Kynstar and QuierdoMusic for reviewing the last chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Silver Doesn't Solve Everything**

"So Gabriel's alive?"

Sam looks startled at the question. I have to admit that, coming out of the blue when we're in the middle of trying to pinpoint the likeliest location to find the werewolf, it's more than a little strange.

"I thought you knew that."

"I knew because the bitch told me, when her sidekick was busy beating the crap out of you. I didn't know before that... I don't think Cas knows."

Yeah. Cas. I still haven't really forgiven him for being so _callous_ about Sam being dead, but he _can_ be helpful sometimes. He turns up now and then, chats a bit about what things are like upstairs, God still missing – and from what I can tell, he thinks both Michael and Gabriel are gone for good.

Makes me wonder about Michael –

"Yeah, Gabriel's alive. I don't think he ever really died, actually."

"What happened, then?"

"From what I understand of it, it was kind of like it was when you stabbed him back in –"

"Not _that_, Sam. We thought he was dead, he isn't, whatever. I'm not _interested_ in the metaphysics. What happened with you and him and the crossroads demon?"

"Oh... that."

"Yeah. That."

"Do we have to have this conversation _now_, Dean? I'd've thought it could wait until _after_ we've dealt with the murderous shapeshifting monster."

"_Now_, Sam. Look, the bitch has been hanging around outside for the last two days. Yeah, we're ready for her this time, and we've got the tattoos and I'm pretty sure that even _without_ the tattoo she wouldn't be able to possess you. But we're going after the werewolf tonight and I don't want any unpleasant surprises – so I need to know everything you know about her."

Sam sighs.

"OK, then. Someone summoned her when I was working a job in Arkansas – bunch of vampires, _not_ the nonviolent variety. Anyway, I went to the nearest bar after I finished the job. It was on a busy intersection – no _way_ anyone should have been able to summon a demon there, but apparently the guy was a construction worker and he drilled through in the middle of the night. Told everyone who asked that he was doing repair work. He summoned her, she hung around offering deals to people."

"And she stepped into the bar and offered you one."

There's a shrug. "Apparently that's kind of a standing order for them."

"You mean _any_ demon we come across is going to be trying to get you to make a deal to go back to Lucifer's –"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Oh... _So_ not good. Once this werewolf's out of the way, I'm taking Sam to Florida or somewhere for a vacation. I'm going to turn _off_ my cell phone, if he starts researching jobs I'm going to throw his laptop into the Atlantic Ocean, and we are going to take an actual _break_. And we are not going anywhere near any demon-related jobs ever again.

"So? What happened?"

"What do you think? I said no – at that point she was just offering me the standard stuff. Money, girls, money _and_ girls, you know the thing. She followed me when I left. I started the exorcism but before I could get more than two lines into it, she... Well, she said she could see to it that you'd always have everything you needed to be happy, everything you wanted... Except me." I force myself not to say anything. This is _not_ the time. "I didn't really pay attention at first, just went on with the exorcism. But... well, she kept talking."

Always a danger with an exorcism. Demons get scared, they start making promises, some hunters are stupid enough to fall for them... Things go sideways.

But in Sam's case it could've been avoided pretty easily.

"Why didn't you just Obi-wan her? Uriel's gone, and the rest of the upstairs people are probably willing to overlook an infraction or two in self-defence."

Sam gives me one of those _yeah right_ looks and goes on as though I never asked the question. "It got... well, I was willing to hear her out. She said you'd get everything you wanted, no demon would _ever_ go after you or try to hurt you in any way."

"And you said..."

"Gabriel was hanging around. Wanted my help with something. He'd been loitering in the bar – probably picking up girls or scrounging back issues of _Weekly World News_ – and he came out and blasted her."

"Before or after you said no?"

Sam won't look at me. "He exorcised her before I could say anything."

"OK." I take a deep breath. Then another. _I must not raise my voice._ "OK, Sam, she tries to hurt you or even look at you the wrong way while we're on this, you do whatever you have to. If the angels have problems, we'll deal with them later."

This time he _does_ meet my eyes. "No."

"_No?_" I will _never_ understand the kid. Never. "What the hell, Sam? When I try to stop you from using your mojo because you're freaking out _God_,you just go on doing it behind my back, and now when I _tell_ you to do it to save yourself going another round against that bitch you have a problem with it? What's going on?"

"Dean –"

"_No._" Sam's puppy-dog eyes definitely don't work when it's a question of his safety. "I'm not letting this go. What's wrong?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

The voice is unexpected and _way_ too close for comfort. I spin, gun in one hand and Ruby's knife in the other, but fortunately I realize who it is before I can squeeze off a shot.

"Cas! What the _hell_ have I told you about personal space?"

"I am sorry. There were people in the corridor outside. Perhaps I should have materialized on the roof and knocked on the ceiling?"

It takes me a moment to realize he's not joking.

"No, just... what is it?"

Cas looks from me to Sam and back, questioning. When he gets no answer, he says, "I want to know about lawyers."

"Well, you've come to the right place," I tell him, glancing at my brother. "But what do you want with lawyers? Is someone suing you guys for wrongful smiting?"

"Suing?"

"Never mind. Sam – all yours."

Ignoring the death-glare Sam sends me, I grab his laptop and go to a chair by the window to read his notes in peace, leaving him to explain the justice system to our friend.

Half an hour later, Cas looks more confused than ever before and Sam's hair is standing on end from the number of times he's run his hands through it in frustration. I can't resist snickering as I look at them – if _anyone_ could make an angel stop looking all-knowing, it's my brother the geek.

"Progress?" I ask.

"I don't understand," Cas says. "These people _sue_ each other for reparation for damages. And lawyers are disinterested parties who argue their cases? Why?"

I can't resist grinning at Sam. "You'll have to ask pre-law over there."

"He said something about debate and the importance of the justice system and the right to legal representation –"

"Yeah, he _would_. _I'll _tell you why, Cas. Money. If Mr. Right-to-Legal-Representation ever goes back to school and gets his law degree, he'll charge people – what, Sammy, a thousand dollars an hour? – just to _think_ about their cases."

Cas shakes his head, and then he's gone. I glance at Sam.

"Still sucks at goodbyes."

Sam's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

We spend the rest of the day going over the hunt, planning, preparing, making sure we have backup plans. From everything Sam's read, the alpha werewolf is _way_ more dangerous than a regular one, stronger and smarter and harder to take down. It's definitely not going to be possible to trap it in a cage or behind a locked door.

I don't like the plan we've got, which involves Sam acting as bait. If I could put a stop to it... But the kid's got a point. This werewolf has evaded capture, if his research is accurate, literally for _centuries_, and it's not like some of the best hunters in the world haven't tried. There's no way we can get to it unless _it_ wants to get to _us_. Besides... He's an adult, and although he probably would listen to me if I really put my foot down, I don't want to go there.

All the same, I warn him, "If things start to go sideways, Sammy, the bullets don't work or something like that, we are calling an end to it and you are getting out."

"Dean –"

"It's that or we're not going. There's no point looking at me like that, Sam. I don't care _how_ old you are. I'm still older. Means when it comes to your safety, I get the last word."

Sam glares at me, and I'm afraid he's going to fight me on this. I don't know what I'll do if he does – I mean, what _can_ you do with an eight-foot Sasquatch who's decided he's going to be stubborn? It's not like I can keep him here by force.

But in the end he sighs and shrugs. "Fine."

"Fine?" I try not to sound too astonished. "That's it? No tricks?"

"No tricks. If the bullets don't work or it gets too dangerous, I'll get out." Should I push my luck now when he's in this mood? I wouldn't if it were just something _I _wanted, but this is _Sam's_ wellbeing we're talking about. "Sammy, if the demon shows up –"

"_No._" It's almost a growl, and his eyes are warning me to back off, but I can't. Not on this.

"Sam." Maybe a reasonable argument will work. He was just explaining the legal system to Castiel, after all. "You used your mojo to disintegrate her gun. Doesn't look like the angels minded. Why can't you just exorcise her if she threatens you?" Suddenly something else strikes me. "If it comes to that, why didn't you take her toys to pieces a lot earlier? Would have saved yourself a lot of trouble." Pause. "Sammy?"

"I didn't _want _to." Sam's voice is low, hoarse, and raw with so much pain it makes my heart ache just to listen to him. "I didn't want you to – to – not be able to trust me or something like that. I just couldn't... when she had the gun on you... I _couldn't_ let her hurt you. I can't lose you again."

So Sam will use his abilities for my sake but not for his own. Figures.

"Sam, I can't believe –" I stop short, _you'd be that stupid_ dying on my tongue when Sam flinches. "Sam? What's wrong?"

Sam looks up, all hurt and guilt and misery, and it's a look I've seen before.

It's a look I've seen before. I didn't really notice it then – I was too busy feeling sorry for myself – but now that I _do_, it's even more deadly than the puppy-dog eyes. The puppy-dog eyes just make me give Sam whatever he's asking for. This look says _You know that job you're so proud of, Dean? Big brother? You screwed up. Know something else? You hurt Sam. _

This is making me remember the _last_ time, when I was in the panic room telling Sam I didn't believe in him, didn't believe he'd be able to resist Lucifer.

I hate irony. I especially hate the ironic things that happen in our lives, because they all seem to result in Sam getting freak visions or Sam having demon blood withdrawal or _Sam on his knees in the mud –_

_NO!_

You know what really is strange? With all the times we've died, neither of us has died alone. Sam bled out in my arms at Cold Oaks, and he met my eyes before he let himself fall into the Pit. And with the hellhounds ripping at me...

God, Sam _saw _that.

I suppose it's not surprising that I never realized that before. For a second, just a second, I dare to imagine what would happen if I had to watch Sam being torn apart by invisible dogs while I could only shout his name hopelessly and beg him to –

"Dean?" Sam sounds puzzled.

"I believe in _you_, Sam." Chick-flick? Sure. But this is a dangerous hunt, and things might go sideways, and if the very worst happens and I have to bury Sam tomorrow... Well, I'm not going to do it knowing that I didn't even _try_ to get that miserable look off his face when I had the chance. "Maybe that's why you were meant to be Lucifer's vessel." Sam flinches, because that's something we don't talk about _ever_. "Saying no to him was never the point. I said no to Michael, and look how much good that did. Just got myself out of it and Adam in it. The point was saying _yes_ to him and trapping him. And... I don't think anyone else could've done that. I'm proud of you, Sammy. I always have been. You know that, don't you?"

Sam grins his big goofy grin at me, and suddenly it's not the twenty-eight-year-old hunter with the coolest head in the country and a hand that never shakes. It's _Sammy_, thrilled to pieces that he's managed to impress his big brother... Yeah, maybe in other families they do it with Ivy League degrees and baseball, and with us it's sacrificing yourself to save the world.

Who the hell cares? Sam's happy.

"Come on, kid." I toss him a bag weighed down with guns and silver bullets. There's also iron, salt, and plain old-fashioned lead slugs, because silver doesn't solve _everything_. "We've got work to do."

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	12. Teeth and Claws

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to Klutzygirl33, BranchSuper, cold kagome, QuierdoMusic, Kynstar, godsdaughter77 and Twinchester Angel for the reviews. I'm sorry I've not replied yet – I promise I'll get to the replies as soon as I can. But I've had no time for anything, and I thought you guys would almost certainly prefer the next chapter to the replies.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Teeth and Claws**

Werewolves? Suck out loud.

Sam's walking down the road, a loaded shotgun tucked into his belt and a knife in his boot. He's got nothing in his hands, because he's trying to lure the thing to him, not scare it away.

I don't know what it would take to scare the continent's alpha werewolf, but the sight of my baby brother strolling down a broad dirt track waiting for that alpha werewolf to decide that he's dinner sure as hell scares _me_. It's all I can do not to call it off, all I can do not to dart out of the trees and grab Sam and drag him back to the Impala and safety.

_Little brothers don't get to play bait. Ever._ I thought we had that settled years ago, but apparently not.

A twig snaps under Sam's boot, and I jump. He's not trying to be quiet – of course he isn't, he's trying to _attract_ the damn thing – and I am _terrified_. I don't dare keep my finger on the trigger, because I'm so nervous that I might pull it by accident and if a stray bullet goes through Sammy...

_Oh God._

Sam's research says that this particular werewolf doesn't start in with the teeth... Doesn't bite unless its prey tries to fight back.

So Sam's not going to fight back.

In other words, Sam's _brilliant_ plan involves him not only acting as bait, but doing absolutely nothing while a screaming blur of fur and claws rips him apart.

When it's my turn to pick the plan, Sam's job is going to be sitting inside a protective ring of salt and repeating, "I must not put myself in unnecessary danger," until he starts saying it in his sleep. I'm not even letting him do any research until I get that message through.

I hear a sound off to my right and turn. I'm not sure what it was – it could have been a branch whipping in the wind, which has gotten pretty strong, or some small animal scurrying through the undergrowth. Or it could have been a fully-grown werewolf trying to be stealthy.

I look up. The moon is out, full and round and bright. That doesn't mean anything, though; especially not with _this_ werewolf. Even a normal werewolf might change form at any time during the night, or not at all on some nights; with the alpha werewolf there's simply no way to be certain what it can or can't do, and the lore points us in a hundred different directions at once.

I have to be quick. I have to be watchful. If the werewolf gets close to Sam I'll risk hitting _him_, not to mention that the thought of teeth and claws near Sammy –

_Crap!_

While I've been looking right and left and peering into the undergrowth for the werewolf, something's snuck up on Sam... Well, _snuck_ isn't the right word, since the bitch seems to have materialized in front of him and is now poking a finger in his chest and saying something that's making his eyes go wide.

Yeah, it's the demon, all right.

We planned for this. I have to remember that. I'm not an idiot, Sam's not an idiot, we _knew_ that the demon would try to get close to us, or at least to Sam. He's promised me, _promised_ me that he's not going to do anything stupid, promised me that if the demon shows up he'll ignore it and just get the job done.

But, damn it, I'm so scared I can't move. Sam's promised, but that doesn't change anything. Sam would break a hundred promises if he thought it would make me happy.

I finger my shotgun nervously. I have the Colt tucked into my belt just in case, but I can't pull it out and start shooting, not when she's positioned herself so that Sam is between me and her. I wonder if she's done that deliberately. She probably has; I'm sure she knows I'm here. Bitch seems to know everything.

"C'mon, Sammy," I whisper. "C'mon, just step away. Step away and give me a clear shot."

As though Sam's heard me, he backs off, moving a few feet to the left, giving me an unobstructed shot. The demon turns, but she doesn't move. She just keeps talking. For a moment I hesitate: she's not doing him any actual harm, and if I waste her I'll kill the woman whose body she's borrowed. But... No. It sucks, and I'm sorry, but _no_. I can't take risks with Sam. I reach for the Colt, pull it out, aim...

Before I can squeeze off a shot, there's a loud, snarling, growling howl, a sound as eerily spine-chilling as anything I've ever heard in all my years of hunting. Sam stops short and spins. His hand goes to his belt but he doesn't pull out the gun.

I turn towards the sound, the Colt in one hand and my shotgun in the other, ready to start blasting the moment I see it –

It happens so quickly I don't have time to react. The damn thing is _fast_, faster than any other werewolf we've seen. It's a blur as it races down the path, covering the hundred yards to Sam in a few seconds, and he's pushed the woman behind him –

Defending the demon bitch? Why the hell is he defending the demon bitch?

Then it strikes me: he's not defending the _demon_, he's defending the woman. Oh, yeah, this is the Sam who, just a few weeks ago, gave me a lecture on how collateral damage is an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence of war.

But now the monster's _on him_, and oh my _God_ I can hear it growling from way over _here_. I can hear the sound of something ripping – probably his hoodie – and a yelp of pain that could be either Sam or the werewolf. The woman's trying to slink away –

But then it looks up and sees her and leaps for her.

Which takes it away from Sam, which means I have a clear shot. I raise the shotgun, trying not to look at Sam's too-still form, and squeeze the trigger.

The werewolf jerks, but it doesn't fall. The shot seems to have got it in the shoulder and I've only made it angry. Looks like the killing shot will have to be straight to the heart.

I aim and fire again, but it's moving so quickly that this shot just grazes its neck. _Damn it._

It abandons the woman. As soon as it does, her mouth opens in a scream and black smoke pours out. The demon's leaving her, too... Not that it'll do her much good, poor thing. When the werewolf lets her go she collapses limply onto the gravel and lies there motionless.

Sam's stirring now, trying to push himself up. The werewolf is on him in an instant, claws tearing into him, blood seeping through Sam's shirt into the ground –

I fire again. This time my aim is perfect, because I don't miss when I'm shooting at things that are spilling my brother's blood. I get it straight in the chest. It rolls over, yelping, and for a moment it sounds so much like a wounded dog that I almost feel sorry for it –

_Almost_, but then it's up again, and it goes for Sam.

Right. Enough's enough. Shotgun time is _over_. I don't want to use the Colt; the werewolf's right on top of Sam, and it's one thing to risk hitting my brother with a silver bullet, but I'm not taking any chances with the Colt. Silver bullets don't work, and we don't have time for me to run through iron and salt and holy water in the hopes of finding something that does. I'm going to go there and stake the sucker.

I run towards Sam and the werewolf, snagging a thick branch from a tree as I pass. It breaks easily – no tree is going to stand in my way when it's a question of saving Sammy – and jaggedly, giving me a nice sharp point. Perfect.

When I get closer I realize the werewolf hasn't started using teeth yet. It's still ripping into Sam with its claws, so intent that it doesn't notice me approaching.

It sure as hell notices when I drive the branch through it.

I shove its body off Sam, dropping to my knees and grabbing his shoulder.

"Sammy. Sammy. _Sammy!_" I shake him. "Come on, don't do this to me, Sam, _please_." Sam's eyelids flutter. "Sammy? You with me, kiddo?"

"Dean?"

"_Sam._"

He blinks up at me, then turns just enough to see the werewolf and the woman beyond it.

"Dean –"

"Never mind that, Sam, I'll deal with it. As soon as I've fixed you up –"

"Dean, _no_." He tries to sit up, and I push him back down firmly. "There's no time. It's not permanently dead, the only way to do that is to burn it now. And then you have to look at _her_, she's not moving. It'll just take you a few minutes. I'll be fine."

"Sam –"

"_Please._"

I don't even bother putting up a fight. "Fine, but Sam? Don't you dare die on me. If you do..."

"You'll kill me?" he asks, in a tone that's entirely too light.

"_Not funny_," I hiss, and Sam sighs.

"I'm sorry. Dean, really, I'm fine. It didn't get any vital organs. I'm not going to bleed out while you deal with it. Just hurry up."

I do the salt-and-burn mechanically. I drag the werewolf's body away, but not too far: I'm close enough to hear Sam if he raises his voice just a little, close enough to hear anything that tries to attack him. It doesn't take long. When I go back, Sam insists that I check the woman over first. His voice is strong, and he hasn't lost too much colour, so I do it.

She doesn't seem to have lost too much blood – she has a few scrapes, but they're superficial. Fortunately there don't seem to be any bite marks: I don't know how Sam would have dealt with it if I'd had to shoot her. She has a worrying lump on her head, though; she's unconscious and her breathing is harsh and shallow.

"She needs a hospital," Sam offers. I look up to see that he's managed to push himself upright, but the effort has clearly been too much for him and now he's clutching his stomach and wheezing through clenched teeth.

"So do you." I stifle any incipient protest with a glare. "It may not have bitten you, but I'm pretty sure you can get a totally non-supernatural infection from those claws. With our luck you'll probably get rabies. We're not taking chances." I hesitate, because now we have a problem. The woman's clearly not going to wake up, Sam's awake but he sure as hell can't walk on his own, and I can't carry her _and _support Sammy at the same time – the Sasquatch is just too damn big. "Will you be OK by yourself for a few minutes while I take her to the car?"

"I'll be fine, Dean."

"Wait." I leave the woman and go to Sam. I don't check him over yet, because I know that once I see how badly he's hurt there's no way I'll be able to tear my attention away from him long enough to get her to safety. I haul him off the path, prop him up against a tree, and slide the Colt into his right hand and his cell phone into his left. "Keep talking to me, you hear? Call my phone and keep talking. And if anything comes anywhere near you and even looks at you wrong, you waste it."

"Yes, Dean."

He sounds so much like a sulky teenager that I chortle under my breath as I go back to pick up the woman. I hoist her over one shoulder in a fireman's carry, and turn and glare at Sam until he presses speed dial 1 and I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.

I pull out the phone as I begin the walk back to the Impala.

"Hiya, Sammy."

"I'm fine, Dean. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. But you don't have to. Nothing's caught fire, has it? I made pretty damn sure the thing was out of the way of anything that might light up, but you can never tell."

"Seems fine."

"Good." I'm amazed at how _light_ the woman is. Of course, considering that the person I'm _usually_ helping back to the car is about twelve feet tall, it's no wonder it's so easy for me to put her over my shoulder. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine, Dean." He sounds just a little weaker, and I cringe to hear it. "Getting darker. Moon's going in."

"Yeah, I know. You have a flashlight?"

"Pocket."

"Can you get it out?" There's a noise, the sound of cloth rustling, a muffled curse, and then a choking breath that tells me more about how much Sam's hurting than he's ever going to admit. "Sam? You got it yet?"

"Yeah... Think I broke a rib."

"I'd be surprised if you hadn't broken any ribs. That thing was even bigger than you are, and it landed on you full-force _twice_. Just hold on, OK, Sam? I'll be back as soon as I've taken care of her. Hold on."

"Yeah."

He sounds drowsy, but I keep him talking as I walk towards where we left the Impala. It takes me a few minutes to get there, and I can't help worrying. Sam's conscious and he has the Colt, which should keep him safe from most things, but with the kind of nasties _we_ deal with...

When I finally see the Impala's sleek black lines, I go weak-kneed with relief. I don't put the woman inside – I saw the demon leave her, but you can never be certain until you've actually done the exorcism, and until we're sure I'm not trusting her with either my baby or my baby brother. I lay her on the ground and draw a Devil's Trap around her. I wish I had Sam with me: remembering mystical symbols is his thing, not mine. I'm asking him for help as I go, not because I need it – I may not be as good as Sam, but I know how draw a freaking _Devil's Trap_ – but to keep him from falling asleep.

"Then cross it with a line down to the middle," Sam's murmuring. "Go down to the left and – _Crap!_"

"What?" I almost drop the phone. "Sam? Sam! Sammy! Don't you dare say _crap _and then nothing! What's going on?"

"She's back – another body! How the _hell_ does she do it so fast?"

Before I can answer I hear a gunshot, a curse, the clatter of the phone being dropped, another gunshot and then a strangled scream that's definitely Sam.

"_Sam!_"

I don't bother finishing the Devil's Trap.

* * *

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	13. You Have to Believe

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to Klutzygirl33, cold kagome, Kynstar, BranchSuper, jensengirl4eva, QuierdoMusic, ritsam, godsdaughter77, CeCe Away, Malleus Beneficarum and Twinchester Angel for reviewing.

* * *

**Chapter 13: You Have to Believe**

_Stupid, Dean! How could you be so stupid? Sitting here drawing in the dirt when the demon was busy occupying another body and getting to Sam and you left him ALONE._

I run, feet pounding the dirt, knowing only that I have to get to Sam in time. It might already be too late – _please don't let it be too late_ – but I won't believe that. I _won't_. Sam's OK, Sam's holding on because he promised me he would and because he knows it would kill me to lose him and Sam won't make me go through that again.

Sam's –

I skid to a halt when I see someone – looks like the bitch picked a male body this time, unless this is her sidekick – holding Sam back against a tree. The man is freaking _huge_, bigger than me, bigger than _Sam_, and he's holding my baby brother off the ground as easily as if he were a disobedient puppy. The Colt's on the ground, a few feet away from Sam and the man but too far for me to dive for it.

_Crap._

"Exorcise him, Sam," I order when I manage to find my voice.

"Oh, you can't do that, can you, Sam?" The man gives Sam a shake that makes him whimper, actually freaking _whimper_, and if I could think of a way to distract him long enough to get my hands on the Colt I'd – "You really want to _exorcise_ me in front of your big brother? You want him to know that despite everything that happened, you haven't changed? Still the same... Still dark... Still unreliable –"

"_Shut up!_" I bark. "Shut up! Sam, don't listen to him, just do it!" Sam turns his head enough to squint at me, and I wonder if he's awake enough to exorcise the demon even if he wanted to. "Sam, can you hear me?"

"Dean?" he asks, his voice a pitiful whisper.

"_Exorcise him, Sam._"

"You remember Hell, Sammy? You remember the _cage_?" The bitch – son of a bitch – _whatever _– has one huge hand on Sam's throat, pressing down just enough to make him struggle for every breath. "You remember what Lucifer told you about how Dean thought you were a monster? He was probably relieved when you died, because it meant he wouldn't have to deal with you."

"_Sam!_ Don't listen to it! It's lying! Just waste it."

"Do you want your brother to have to hunt you, Sam? Is that what you want? Look at him. He's terrified of you." Sam doesn't bother to look, for which I'm grateful, because I _am_ terrified – it's kind of a natural reaction when somebody's got my little brother by the throat. "You don't have to take Lucifer's word for it, though. Big brother's said it himself. Your abilities scare the hell out of him."

There's something in Sam's eyes I don't like. It's despair and defeat and _damn it_ no demon should be able to do that to him.

"_You_ scare the hell out of him, Sam." The demon presses in close to Sam, drives a fist _hard _into his gut before continuing. "If he didn't know you, he'd hunt you. You know that." He hits Sam again. I start edging towards the Colt. "He told you so himself."

Damn it. _Damn it._

_Never learn to keep your big mouth shut, will you, Dean?_

And_, Oh God, is this what Lucifer did to Sam in Hell? No wonder he was scared to come back to me._

Just a few feet away now...

"Don't listen to him, Sammy."

"_Don't listen to him, Sammy_," the demon mimics. "He's going to be happier without you, Sam. You know that." His voice is a low, almost sensual whisper. "You should never have come back. Dean's better off without you – after all, if you'd never been born, your brother would still have had parents. No ugly things chasing him... It's not too late to fix it. Just go back where you belong, and we'll make sure Dean's happy."

I hear a harsh sob, and that's more horrible than anything else that has happened today.

"Sam, no."

"He won't remember a thing. He won't even know he ever had a brother. Just think, Sam. Dean is going to be perfectly happy. He'll have _everything_ he wants – everything, because he can't want you if he doesn't even know you existed."

That last sentence does it. I should wait, I should go slowly, because demons are _fast_ and who the _hell _knows what this one can come up with, but I can't stand and _listen_ to it saying things like that to Sammy. I dive for the Colt and come up firing. The first shot goes wild; by the time I can get off a second, the demon's shifted around, holding Sam between us like a shield. Sam kicks at him, but it's useless – the demon's too strong.

"Let him _go_!" I snap. "_Now!_"

"Or what?" the demon sneers. "You'll shoot Sam full of holes trying to get to me? Go ahead. At least you'll be rid of him then, just like you've always wanted."

"Shut _up_! Shut up and _let him go_."

"Oh, but Sammy wants to come with me." He twists one of Sam's arms around behind him, and for some reason that makes me notice the _blood_. Sam was bleeding already and all the manhandling has made it worse. "Sammy knows you don't want him. It's really best for you this way, Dean. You know that."

There's only one way to do this. The demon's got Sam. We can't keep going through this every week. It has to end _now_.

I pull out my shotgun, take aim and fire.

My aim is perfect. Sam gasps and grunts as the bullet gets him in the thigh; then suddenly his legs stop holding him and he slumps in the demon's grip. The thing isn't expecting the Sasquatch to suddenly turn into a deadweight – _what a happy turn of phrase you have there, Dean! _– and thank _God_ Sammy's so big, because that's what makes him so unwieldy in the demon's arms.

_Gotcha, you son of a bitch! You need practice to know how to hold up Gigantor._

Inevitably, he loses his grip on Sam, who thuds to his knees on the ground. I have the Colt ready, as soon as Sam's out of the way I fire –

And I feel myself thrown against a tree.

_Missed again? _That's not even possible... The first time, yeah, I was so furious I could barely even see straight, and I was moving, but _this _time? No way I could've missed, unless this thing is a hell of a lot faster than we give it credit for. If so...

I shiver. How the hell do I get a bullet through it?

It throws me again, and now I can feel my breath getting short, and all I can think is that Sam's going to blame himself for this when it's not even his fault and there's so much I never told him and –

"_Dean!_"

I barely recognize the voice as Sam's, it's so wild and panicked and – well – _furious_. The pressure on my throat eases and I can breathe again. I slump forward gratefully, gulping in air, massaging my bruised ribs, and look up just in time to see the demon go flying into a chestnut tree.

_Take that, hell-spawn! That's my little brother._

The demon gets to his feet and turns around, snarling. Sam's ready for him; I see his face go rigid with concentration as he holds one hand out towards the demon.

I swallow. This is going to be difficult: he's not high on demon blood, so there's no way he can just zap the demon back to Hell by thinking it for a half-second, the way he did with Lucifer's goons in Detroit. He's probably only managing to go in this strong because he's terrified for me. It's going to take him a few minutes, which means there'll be enough time for the demon to –

"Wait, Sam! I can make you an offer!"

My mouth twists in distaste. As soon as we're out of this, I'm going to set Sam to researching a way to make demons stop talking.

"Don't listen to him, Sammy. Keep going."

"Sam, if you won't make a deal with me, Lucifer's just going to send more demons after you. He'll send them after Dean!" _Damn it._ Here we go again. "Do you want your brother pursued by demons who are just trying to use him to get to you? Are you really that selfish?"

"Shut up!" I snap.

The demon ignores me. "If you think Dean doesn't trust you _now_, think of how much _less_ he's going to trust you when he figures out that it's all _your_ fault he doesn't have a mother. Do you want to wait around for that to happen?"

"Don't listen to him, Sam!" Sam's resolve is wavering just a fraction; the demon probably can't tell, but I can. "Sammy, _please_!" I don't dare touch him: I don't want to distract him. I can only hope he's listening to me. "Sam, please, I'm begging you, don't listen to him. _Don't._ I need you to stick around and be a pain in my ass."

"He won't even know you're not there, Sam. He won't care. I promise you that."

"_Shut up, you son of a bitch!_"

"Is shouting at demons effective?"

The voice is familiar; for the first time in _months_, I welcome it.

"Cas! _Do something!_" The angel who's materialized next to me shakes his head in doubt, looking from Sam to the demon and back. Oh _God_ – if Cas starts anything about Sam's powers being dark, I will open Lucifer's cage again and throw him in myself. "Don't stand there like a freaking idiot, Cas! Waste it!"

Cas still hesitates. Sam's eyes flicker towards us; he relaxes a little and barks, "Cas, get him out of here."

"What? _No!_" I snap furiously. Castiel grabs my arm. I shake him off impatiently. "Don't be stupider than you have to be, Sam. I'm not going anywhere without you and – get _off_ me, Cas!"

But Cas doesn't, and the last thing I see before everything goes misty is Sam lowering his arm and staring wide-eyed at the demon.

When the mist clears, I'm by the Impala. The woman's nearby, still out of it but with some of her colour back. Cas is bending over her, one hand hovering over her head.

"She will be fine," he announces. "She does not need my help."

Then he takes a step towards me.

"Are you crazy?" I bark. "I'm fine. Go get Sam!"

"Dean, the way you were touching your chest, I am certain you have broken ribs. It will only take me a minute –"

"_Get my brother._"

"I really think I shouldn't interfere –"

"What, you're just going to let him _die_? Doesn't Sam deserve better than that from you at least _now_?"

"The question is not what he deserves from _me_, Dean, because in all honesty I doubt he even cares what he gets from me. The question is what he deserves from you."

Typical. Sammy could be dying or making some _stupid_ deal at this very instant, and Cas stands there talking philosophy.

"Get Sam," I beg, because nothing else seems to be working. "Cas, please... _Please. _Get Sammy. Bring him here in one piece. And make sure the bitch can't ever come back."

"There will be others, Dean."

"We'll deal with them when they come, shoot them, stab them, whatever. Cas, please, you're wasting time and Sam could already be..." I stop. I'm not going to say it. "_Please._"

Cas sighs and disappears.

I settle down, rubbing my ribs now that nobody's here to see. At least two of them seem to be broken – they hurt like hell when I touch them, and I can feel the ends of bone grating together. I'll get Sam to tie them up for me.

I steal a glance at the woman. She _does_ look better now, and I actually manage to feel a little good about that. At least she hasn't been killed; that's one less thing for Sam to pretend he isn't feeling guilty about. I'm sure we're going to have enough trouble after this, nightmares he tries to hide from me and staring out the Impala's window as though the scenery murdered his pet cat... So long as he doesn't leave, we'll be fine. Everything else I can handle; I can give him the chick-flick moments he insists he doesn't want, I can sit up with him every night until he falls asleep, but if he decides to walk out on me...

I have to acknowledge it. Sam's good, and Sam's the one who does the research and tracks things down. If he decides to disappear on me, I'll never find him.

When did we get so screwed up? I wish we could go back to the time when it was all so much simpler, when Sam believed everything would be all right just because I told him so... Hell, he'd probably believe it now if I could find the words to say it. I _know_ that; the way he burrowed himself into my arms as soon as he saw me that first time was enough to tell me that.

I love Lisa, I do, but I wish she hadn't come out then.

I can remember Sam at seven, the two of us sitting in the backseat of the Impala while Dad drove down back roads and muttered to himself and scowled at his map. Sammy always snuggled up to me, although there was plenty of space, and I called him a girl – well, which eleven-year-old would _admit_ to enjoying his little brother's company? – and laughed at him, but I loved feeling him under my arm, a tiny bundle of warmth and innocence that reminded me what we were fighting for.

And now...

If I believed _that_ Sammy was _dead_, it wouldn't bother me so much. I'd mourn him, but everyone has to grow up some time, and that trip I took into the Djinn's fantasyland years ago taught me not to miss my brother's innocence too much. I'm sorry Sam lost it, but I'm _not_ sorry that we're... that we _were_ the way we were, the way we're not anymore but I'm determined we're going to be.

Because Sam doesn't trust me entirely, and he doesn't let his guard town totally around me anymore because he's scared to. That's what hurts. I'm not blaming him: I asked, and I wanted an honest answer, and I _understand_.

Sam trusts me with his life; he's shown that plenty of times in the months we've been hunting together again. He trusts me to watch his back and waste anything that tries to get him. He trusts me to patch him up after some fugly's thrown him into a few bookshelves.

But he doesn't trust me with his emotions. Every time I try to get him talking he shies away, and even if he opens up to me it doesn't last long. It's like he's scared I'm going to bail on him or... or reject him, or something. And I don't know what to do or say to make it right. I _know_ I screwed up, and I'd do anything to fix it, but... Well. Sammy's my baby brother. Since the day he was born, I've loved him more than anything else in the world. And all his life, he's known that without needing to be told. It's a fact of life, or at least a fact of _our _lives.

What do you do when you need to explain to the biggest geek you know that the world is round?

Just as I'm starting to wonder what the hell is taking Cas so long, he shows up.

Alone.

And he says, "I'm sorry, Dean... Really. It's best this way. Sam had to make his own choice."

I stare at him in mingled horror and disbelief, wondering how he can say it so calmly, as though he's telling me he doesn't like extra onions on his hamburgers. But his face says a lot of things his voice doesn't. He looks like he thinks I'm going to kill him.

Kill him?

_Kill him?_

I'm going to stuff him in the cage right next to Lucifer.

After all, while I don't see eye to eye with the devil on a lot of things, he and I seem to have similar views on how to treat people who hurt our brothers.

* * *

I'm evil. I know. ;-)

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	14. Because It's Best This Way

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to CeCe Away, fsv, godsdaughter77, MY Siberian Husky is MY Angel, cold kagome, cookjar, BranchSuper, Buckeye mom, Cainchan, Twinchester Angel and scootersmom for reviewing the last chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Because It's Best This Way**

"Let me help you," Cas offers, holding out his hand.

I shy away. This is the angel who pretended to be Sam's friend but wasn't remotely bothered when every other freaking person on _earth_ got a second chance but Sam had to stay in Lucifer's freaking _cage_, who now left my baby brother all by himself so he could make a deal with some stupid demon trying to help _me_.

Cas healing _me_? Not a chance.

"Dean," Cas insists. "I know you're angry, but once you've thought about it –"

"_Get off me_," I snarl. "Shut up and get off me."

But Cas keeps reaching. I jerk away violently, remember too late that the Impala's right behind me, and feel a terrific pain in the top of my head before there's darkness.

It's my sense of smell that comes back first. I can smell dirt and sulphur and gunpowder and gasoline. There's a faint aroma of something like bread, and it makes me feel sick, because how can people go around eating _bread_ as though everything's perfect when Sam's done something so monumentally _stupid_ and I might never see him again _ever_?

There's also something that smells vaguely... comforting. It takes me a minute to identify it; then I realize that Cas must've put me in one of Sam's hoodies and it still smells of his aftershave.

Touch comes back next. I try to get away from it, because I don't _want_ to feel now that Sam's gone. When I back away I come against something soft but unyielding. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know.

I try to move away from it, but I can't. As I struggle, not quite knowing what's holding me back, sound filters through.

"Dean, you have to be sensible." _Screw you, Castiel._ "I was acting for the best." _Yeah? I notice you didn't leave _your_ brother to make any deals with demons. _"I know you're angry with me." _Angry doesn't begin to cover it._ "Just calm down."

Calm down?

That snaps my last bit of self-control, and I'm struggling to open my eyes, scrambling to my feet –

Except that I'm not on my feet, and I'm warmer and more comfortable than I have any right to be when Sam's _dead_ for my sake. And then I'm sobbing like a child who's lost everything, because I _have_ lost everything, and there's someone rubbing my back but I don't _care_ because all I want is Sammy.

I'm not quite sure _when_ it filters through to my fogged brain that the hand on my back is too big and too gentle to belong to Cas.

A moment later I'm sighing in relief, letting myself go slack in Sam's grip – nothing hurts, so Cas has healed me, but since Sam's OK I'm willing to _think _about forgiving him – and trying to find a comfortable spot to rest my aching head. As soon as I do that Cas stops talking, and in the sudden silence I realize two things. First, Sam hasn't said a word. Second, if that's his breathing I can hear, it's hoarse and shallow and far more laboured than it should be.

_And you're putting all your weight on his ribs and making it worse. Brilliant, Dean!_

"You idiot," I hiss, pushing myself off Sam. This time when I will my eyes to open they do, revealing one still-terrified-looking angel and one bloodied and battered moron.

Cas had time to heal _me_ but not _Sam_?

I turn to him to demand an explanation, but before I can get further than, "What –" he cuts in hastily. I can tell he's been rehearsing the words in his head.

"He didn't want me to heal him, Dean – it frightened him too much to have me even trying it, and I thought it was best if I waited until you were... Anyway. He doesn't have any life-threatening injuries, although I imagine some of those cuts must hurt. He said he didn't want me to –"

"This is _Sam_," I say furiously, waving a hand in my brother's direction. "When does he ever say he wants to be patched up?"

"_Dean_," Sam protests mildly. It's just one word, and a short word, but getting it out makes him cough and go pale, and all thought of murdering an Angel of God goes out of my head as I try to get him into a more comfortable position.

Then I notice something.

"Where's the woman?"

"I took her home," Cas says. "She isn't seriously injured, but I imagine her family will take her to a doctor anyway. She will remember none of this. I saw to that." He sounds smugly pleased.

I really want to know what the hell happened while I was out, but first things first. The interrogation can wait until I have Sammy patched up.

"C'mon, kiddo," I say, pulling one of his arms across my shoulders and getting a supporting grip on the remnants of his hoodie. "You ready to try getting up?" I wait for his nod. "OK, let me do the work. You just worry about keeping your balance." I can't imagine why I bother to tell him this anymore; we've done it so many times that it's automatic. "Come on, Sammy, _up_."

Sam snorts, but he stays on his feet when I hoist him. Cas opens the car door, and I manage to get Sam settled in the passenger seat.

"What's it going to be, Sam?" I ask as I get in on the other side. "Cas or the hospital?"

"Can't you just do it in the motel?"

"No. I mean, it's not like I _love_ hospitals, Sam. I've seen enough of them to last me _forever_. But we can't take stupid risks with cuts that could get infected even if they weren't from a werewolf. And the demon didn't help, either. So... which is it going to be?"

"Hospital," Sam says, his voice barely audible, sinking as low as he can into the vinyl seat.

I spare a moment to glare at Cas. "Have you been scaring him? Threatening him with more of your divine retribution if he uses his mojo on demons? Because considering that if it hadn't been for Sam's mojo all of us would probably be _dead_ –"

"Dean, I promise you –"

"Good." I start the car. "Hold on, Sammy. Pressure on the wounds. We'll be at the hospital soon."

No amount of cajoling or patented Dean Winchester will make the doctor let me stay in the examination room while she looks at Sam. I sit in the waiting room with Cas, who, for some reason, is still hanging around.

"Just in case," he says, as though he's read my mind. "If there's something the doctors can't help you with." He pauses, shakes his head. "I suppose you want an explanation."

"Yeah, Cas. I _do_. An hour ago you were happy to let Sam go back to the cage and now you're sitting here telling me you want to be on call to _help_ him? He's not even important to you guys anymore. Lucifer's gone. Doesn't that mean Sam's out of the story, too?"

"I want to help Sam because I want to help Sam. Nobody's giving me orders about this. And I _did_ want to help him in the woods, no matter what you think. I wanted to help both of you."

"By letting Sam make a deal with a demon?"

"By letting Sam turn the demon down and exorcise it so that _he_ would know he had the strength to do it and _you_ would believe that your brother is not going to leave you. He did it himself, Dean. I didn't help him at _all_. I wasn't even there. _You_ weren't there." I stare at Cas, not quite getting it, and he sighs. "Don't you understand? Sam was alone with the demon. Nobody was there to save him this time. Today he made a choice, and it was _his_ choice. It was not made for him." There's a pause, and then Cas goes on. "If I hadn't been certain of what he would choose, I would never have left him alone."

"But... how'd you know? _I_ didn't know, and..." _I know Sammy better than anybody_, I think but don't say.

This time Cas's sigh seems to come from the bowels of the earth – and, yeah, I _do_ know what that sounds like. "We did many things – _I _did many things – to push Sam towards the last seal, Dean. It doesn't matter what," he adds hastily. "I'll tell you about them later, when Sam's there and feeling strong enough to prevent you from trying to murder me. The point is that we studied him, we studied his every weakness so that we could exploit them to break him."

"And I'm his biggest weakness," I say, unimpressed. "Didn't need you to tell me that."

"Yes, but you're not _only_ each other's weakness, Dean. Sam didn't refuse the demon for his own sake. He did it for yours, because he worships the ground you walk on; he didn't want you to have to go on without him _or _have to live with the guilt of knowing that he'd sacrificed himself for your sake."

"Sam told you that?" I demand incredulously.

"Sam did not have to tell me that."

"So... Wait. Sam would still have done it if he'd believed the demon really could wipe him out of my memory? Because that is _so_ not comforting, Cas."

Cas shrugs. "I can't solve everything for you. You now know that your brother has the _strength_ of mind to refuse a demon. I personally believe that he also has the will to refuse, especially now that he's proven it, but if you want to be certain... As I said, you're not _only_ each other's weakness. And _I_ cannot help you with this."

I don't know what to say, so we sit in awkward silence for a couple of minutes before a nurse steps into the room and asks, "Relatives of Sam Connor?"

I leap to my feet in relief. "I'm his brother, Dean. How is he?"

"He's been asking for you. Would you like to see him?" I give her a look, and she laughs. "Let's go. I have to warn you, though... He's been drugged to help with the pain. He may not be very... coherent."

_Sammy's high on pain meds? This is going to be interesting._

I follow the nurse down the corridor to the exam room, Cas right behind me. She knocks, waits for a moment, and then pushes open the door, beckoning for us to follow her into the room. I go in, and I have to smile when I see how Sam, dressed in green hospital scrubs and looking longingly at the door, brightens when I come in.

"Hiya, Sammy," I say, crossing the few feet to him. "Feeling better?"

He nods, as solemn as a six-year-old, and announces, "They gave me the good stuff, Dean. Can't feel a thing. Except my head. Head hurts."

"That's because you're such a geek." I put a hand under his chin and tilt his head up to look into his eyes. "You sure you're feeling all right?" Sam nods. I turn to the doctor. "_Is_ he all right?"

"_Dean_," Sam protests, but when I squeeze his shoulder he falls silent. He also leans his head forward to rest it on my ribs, which tells me something about just how much of that medication they pumped into him.

The doctor gives me a wry smile. "He'll be fine. I've cleaned out the cuts and stitched them. I don't think anything's infected, but I'm going to prescribe some antibiotics just to be on the safe side. The thing that concerned me a little was... it looked like there was a bullet wound in his leg?"

I flush guiltily. "That was me. When the bear was attacking him, I tried to shoot it, but it was moving so quickly that I... well... missed."

"Oh." The doctor's frowning at me now. I can almost read his mind. He's thinking that it's ridiculous to think _abuse_ with a twenty-eight year old who's well over two hundred pounds of muscle and who clearly keeps himself fit, but it _is _the middle of the night and there are a few strange scars and some fading bruises and you can't be _certain_. "You... did that?"

I hesitate. Of course there's no danger of getting CPS called on us, but the guy _can_ make things unpleasant. At the very least, he can keep me out of Sam's room until he recovers.

Before I can speak, the answer comes from somewhere in the region of my sternum. "Dean did that." He leans back enough to look up at me. "It's OK," he assures me. "You're still my big brother." And then he settles down again, not even wriggling away from the hand I rest on his head, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Sam's got an expression of blind, childlike trust that nobody can fake, and the doctor can see it as well as I can. It's going to get us out of trouble, and it makes me feel like a superhero, but I just wish he was as willing to trust me with everything _else_.

I wrap my free arm around Sam's shoulders, and he sighs happily and snuggles into the touch. I try not to smirk – under other circumstances this would have been brilliant blackmail material, especially considering that there are three witnesses. The way things are now, I'm not going to push my luck.

"Can I take him home?" I ask.

The doctor frowns. "I'd rather have him here for observation for a day or two... Just in case."

I open my mouth to argue, but I don't have to. Sam turns the full force of the puppy-dog eyes on the doctor. The guy looks at least sixty, he probably has _kids_ older than Sam, and he has absolutely no experience at saying _no_ to Sam Winchester. He doesn't stand a chance.

"Take him," he says, shaking his head. "Just keep an eye on him, make sure he takes the antibiotics, and bring him back in if he starts running a fever. I'll prescribe some drugs that you can give him if the pain gets too bad. The bullet went clean through his thigh. Fortunately it missed the major blood vessels. I've stitched it and bandaged it, and he should be fine as long as he doesn't put too much weight on his leg for the next few days. Keep the bandages clean and the stitches dry. He can come back at the end of the week; if he's healing well enough I'll take out the stitches then."

"Food?"

"Whatever he can keep down. The antibiotics may make him feel a little nauseous for a couple of days, but he'll have to keep his strength up. It shouldn't be too bad."

"Right. Thanks, doc." I pat Sam's shoulder. "Come on, kiddo. I'm going to take you home."

* * *

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	15. This Is Home

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks to Cainchan, godsdaughter77, cold kagome, cookjar, QuierdoMusic, BranchSuper and scootersmom for the reviews!

* * *

**Chapter 15: This Is Home**

By the end of the week, Sam's looking much better. He's healing nicely, and when it's time to take out the stitches I decide to do it myself.

On the whole Sam's been compliant this week. He's been a little on edge, getting nervous if I had to leave him alone for more than an hour or two, jumping at sudden noises, and he's not been willing to discuss anything that happened with the demon, so I still don't know anything about what happened other than what Cas told me in the hospital waiting room.

Sam sits quietly while I pick out the stitches, only wincing occasionally when I pull too hard.

"Almost Christmas, Sammy," I tell him, trying to take his mind off what I'm doing. "Just a couple of weeks to go."

For some reason that makes his head droop. I suppress a sigh: puzzling out Sam is a full-time occupation. He refuses to celebrate his birthday anymore, refuses even to acknowledge it, and _that _I understand. Too much happened on it, too much happened exactly six months after it. That's part of why I want to stay with Sam for Christmas. Since I can't give him birthday presents, I may as well play Santa Claus.

And now Sam's making faces at the thought of Christmas, too.

But I have to keep trying, so I ask, "Is there anywhere special you want to go?"

Sam shakes his head, too suddenly and too sharply. After a moment he says, "No... There's nowhere. Don't worry about me, Dean. I'll be fine."

_What the hell?_

His stupid long hair is falling over his eyes, and I can't see his face without bending and peering at it and that would just be _weird_, so I try to read his posture. Shoulders slumped, head down, one hand resting limply on my knee to give me easy access to his arm...

Sam's scared, and trying not to show it.

Scared of _Christmas_?

"So," Sam says unexpectedly, "when are you going?"

"Wha – oh, you mean for dinner? Are you _finally_ hungry? I can go get us something as soon as I'm done with this. What do you want?"

"_Not_ for dinner," Sam says. "When're you _going_?"

"Going _where_, Sam?" I frown, wondering if there's something I need to know about. "I thought we'd settled that I'm not happier without you and I'm not going to let you give yourself to Lucifer because you have some misguided idea that I –"

"That's not what I'm talking about," Sam says impatiently. "When are you going to Lisa's?"

"What for?"

"_Christmas_, Dean. When are you going?"

I feel like I'm in one of the Trickster's alternate worlds. "What the _hell_, Sam?"

Sam gives me an exasperated look. "You said Lisa called and –"

"And I told her there might be things after you. What, you thought I was going to go and leave you here on your own?"

Sam flushes. "Dean, I'll be fine. You don't have to –"

"_Sam!_" I snap angrily. "That's it. No arguing. I mean, you want to be _rid_ of me then that's fine, but –"

"I don't want to be rid of you. I want you to have some fun."

"Yeah? Well, tell me something, Sam. If we were on the road, just like this, and you'd just found me after months of thinking I was dead, would _you_ leave me alone at Christmas? Especially if there were demons after me trying to drag me down to Hell and you were terrified I'd let them because I was stupid enough to think you'd be happier that way?" Sam won't meet my eyes, but I am _not_ letting him get away from this. "_Sam!_" A tiny shake of the head. "Yeah, I thought you wouldn't. So you think it's just me who's that big a jerk. Nice, Sam."

I can't keep from sounding a little hurt, because, really, _how _could Sam imagine that I'd just take off to play House and leave him on his own? Does he really think –

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice has that odd uneven quality it gets when he's fighting too hard to keep it steady. "Dean, I didn't mean... That is, I know you wouldn't... I wasn't saying you were... I'm _sorry_." I don't say anything, because I don't trust myself to speak just now. "Dean?"

_Fine. If Sam's going to make me talk, I might as well get some answers._

"What happened with the demon, Sam?"

"Dean, please –"

"_Damn it, Sam!_" I burst out furiously. I'm telling myself I shouldn't lose my temper, especially not with Sammy, but I can't help it. And maybe a shakedown is what we need. "You're the one always wanting to _talk_ and _share_! You always insist on knowing _everything_, and when I don't want to tell you something because I'm trying to protect you, you either nag me until I do or you go all Sherlock Holmes until you've worked it out on your own. Now I'm telling you, it works both ways. You have to tell me what happened, Sam. You owe me that much." I follow that up with a firm look as I pull out the last of the stitches.

Sam shakes his head mutely. But I know it's unhappiness, not refusal, so I say nothing, prepared to wait it out.

"He – she – _it _just kept offering me stuff, kept telling me I was being... well, _selfish_... by holding on to all this –" Sam breaks off to gesture vaguely around the room. "– when all they wanted was for me to go back, and I could make you happy."

"And?"

"Cas showed up. He said you'd sent him to help me. He asked me if I wanted help." Sam steals a look at me. "I told him to leave."

"And then you said no to the demon."

"Yeah."

"Why?" At Sam's startled look, I add, "Not that I'm not happy about that, Sam, because I _am_, but I still need to know. Whatever I've been doing right to make you say no to that demon, I need you to tell me so I can keep doing it."

Sam rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. "Dean, it was just... I knew..."

"What?"

"I knew I couldn't – I mean, I remember how I miserable I was when you made the deal for me after Cold Oaks, and how you felt when Dad... Well. Anyway, I guess the point is that we need to stay together. And I couldn't do that to you. It would've been the easy way out for me. I mean, you would've been happy, or close to it, and if I have that then there's really nothing Lucifer can do to me. I wouldn't have had to live with... _this_."

"This? You don't want me hanging around?" I keep my voice even, not injured, not accusing.

"_No_, Dean," Sam says, in his _big-brothers-are-so-slow_ voice. "I wouldn't have had to live with everything I've done. I've made mistakes."

"Welcome to the human race, Sam."

"No, really, Dean. Other people make mistakes, they pay a few million in damages. They make really _bad_ mistakes, some people die. It took _me_ to make a mistake that –"

"_Sam._" My voice is soft, but the warning is clear.

Sam goes on quickly. "Anyway, that's not the point. The thing is, that would have been easy for me, but it wouldn't have been fair to you. And... Well, I kind of thought it wouldn't be that easy for the demon to make you... you know, _forget_. At least the normal way, if one of us dies..."

"We'll be together again at the end of it?" I ask gently. Sam nods. "So you said no... And then you exorcised it?" Another nod. "That's my boy." Sam smiles a little, dimples flashing. Is it _really_ this easy for me to make him happy? I can't help thinking I don't deserve it... But Sammy does, he deserves to be happy after everything he's been through, and I deserve to see him happy. "So... we're good with that, Sam?"

Sam answers the unspoken question. "I'm not going to make a deal, Dean."

"Good." And for the first time, I actually believe it.

Sam settles back against the headboard and pulls a book out of his bag. I'm content to watch him for a few minutes, and, if I admit the truth, kind of thrilled to see that he's starting to relax a lot more around me. We're getting closer to normal – _our _normal – everyday.

As I watch Sam flip a page – the kid reads faster than anyone I know – there's a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's relief that he's here and I _know_ he's not going to make any deals, happiness because _Sam's_ finally starting to look really happy again, and just a little bit of disappointment that, even now, _especially_ now, he thinks I'm capable of abandoning him so I can go kiss a girl on New Year's Day.

Well, maybe _abandoning_ is a strong word. The kid's twenty-eight, and it's not like we've not both had to spend the occasional night alone in a motel room.

But that's not the point. The point is, he should have _known _I wasn't going to leave him. I've tried _everything_. I've talked, I've had chick-flick moments, I've let him pick the music and I've let him use himself as bait and I've remembered to bring him a vanilla latte whenever I'm the one to go for coffee. I've done everything that Winchesters normally do to say _I trust you_ and _Of course I love you, you idiot_. And things have worked in bits and pieces, but nothing's... _worked_. He's still just a little guarded, still just a little scared, still not entirely certain that I'm not going to call him a monster. He's hiding it well – he learnt from the best – but I know him. I can tell.

Fine. Maybe it's time to stop playing nice. He wanted to be a lawyer, didn't he?

"Sam."

"Hmmm?" Sam drones without looking up.

"Need to ask you something."

Sam takes his time putting the book away. When he turns to me he looks suspicious as hell, which isn't surprising, because I never tell him I need to ask him things. If I want to know, I ask; if I don't want to know but asking will bug him, I ask.

"What?" he demands.

"You remember..." I hesitate, knowing this is dangerous ground and I'm about to bring up a very sore subject. "You remember Cold Oaks... And me making that –"

"Deal with a demon? Yeah, Dean, I kind of _do_."

"OK. Well, remember when you found out about it – that is, when you figured it out?"

"When I _had_ to figure it out because _you_ didn't tell me?"

"Um... Yeah. That."

"Yeah, I remember. So?"

"You said there's nothing you wouldn't do for me."

Sam's staring at with a mixture of trepidation and worry, like he can't decide whether or not I'm about to ask him to pretend that he collects teddy bears for our next job.

"Yeah..."

I lean forward, trying without words to let him know I'm not joking. "There's something I want you to do for me, Sammy."

"Anything," comes his answer, prompt and without thought, and it makes my throat go tight.

And, no, it doesn't escape my notice how similar this conversation is to the one Sammy and I had in the Impala _before_. It's more than coincidence. The promise Sam extracted from me was the _one _thing that kept me from eating my own gun or going into the cage after him. Maybe, this time, I can save both of us.

"Sam... I need you to trust me."

Sam makes an exasperated noise and rolls his eyes. "Dean –"

"_No!_" I snap. "No, you don't. Not entirely. Not with everything. You said so yourself. I need you trust me the way you _used_ to." _Before I screwed up_, I think, but I don't say it. Sam knows that. "I..." _I want you to let me be your big brother._ Sam said that, that day so many years ago when he told me he'd been watching me since he was four and said he wanted me to be his brother again. Why do I have such a hard time saying the same thing? "Sam, I..."

"Dean?" Sam sounds worried now. "What's wrong?"

"I know you're all grown up and you're probably a better hunter than me now and you don't need me to teach you anything anymore but... I want my little brother, Sammy." I can't keep my voice from shaking at the end. "_Please._"

I'm not crying. I _am not_ crying.

"_Dean._"

I look at Sam, blinking furiously. Damn smoke in the room from the toaster or... or the TV, or something. Making my eyes water.

Sam holds out one arm, giving me the kind of full-on puppy-dog eyes he hasn't pulled since he was seven.

"I bumped my elbow," he says.

There's just enough whining in his voice to make me laugh, just enough amusement in it to make me say, "When it comes to kissing your booboos, you're on your own. Bitch."

"_Fine._ You were the one who wanted to be my big brother... _Jerk._"

I give him a light shove. Then, because I _think_ he was joking but with Sam you can never be sure, I steal a surreptitious glance at his elbow. Sam notices – of _course_ he does – and tries the puppy-dog eyes again. I'd forgotten how good he is, and I'm out of practice saying no in the face of Sam Winchester's wide-eyed pleading, so I get up and grab my jacket and announce, "I'm going to get us some lunch."

Because I have to save _some_ of my manliness, and if Sam gives me the eyes again I'll either start bawling like a girl or I'll give in and put a band-aid on his booboo.

Actually, maybe that's not a bad idea.

_A nice pink band-aid. Maybe one that says Barbie or something like that._

I shut the motel room door behind me. I'm going to get some rabbit food for Sam and some real food for myself, and maybe I'm going to get a box of Daisy Duck band-aids just in _case_ I ever need them. And when I come back, Sam's going to be right there, finishing his book.

It doesn't get better than this.

* * *

And that's about it – just the epilogue to go!

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	16. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Many thanks to Klutzygirl33, jensengirl4eva, Arilaen, cold kagome, cookjar, godsdaughter77, scootersmom, Malleus Beneficarum, CeCe Away and Twinchester Angel for the reviews.

Also, thank you to everyone who's reviewed or added this story to Alerts or Favourites – it's more encouraging than I can say! And special gratitude to Cheryl for comments and suggestions and advice throughout the writing of this story.

* * *

**Epilogue: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen**

I wake up on Christmas morning to the sound of a group of off-key carollers singing _Good King Wencelas_ outside the motel room window. They sound like they're still suffering the after-effects of too much eggnog on Christmas Eve. I groan and pull my pillow over my head, thinking that maybe _I _had a bit too much eggnog, too. Sam's getting better at making it.

"They've been at it for a couple of hours," I hear, and I open one eye to peer at Sam.

"How long have you been up?"

"A while."

I shake my head. "Are you getting any sleep at _all_, Sam?"

"Some!" Sam protests defensively. "I can't help it if I don't go into hibernation every night like you do! I _do_ sleep."

"No, Sam, _I _sleep. _You_ toss restlessly for a few hours and then get up and start drinking coffee." I glare at him, although it's not very effective when I'm lying in bed with my pillow over my head and he's sitting up with his laptop and a steaming mug. "You have nightmares again?" Sam's doesn't say anything, but his sudden flush is answer enough. "I _told_ you to wake me, Sam."

"You needed to sleep. I'm not the one who got tossed around by a poltergeist."

"No, you're just the one who nearly got choked to death by gift-wrapping ribbon. _Ribbon_, Sam. I mean, how girly is that?"

He scowls. "I did _not_ get nearly choked to death –"

"Sam, you can't pull that with me. I was there. The freaking stuff refused to _break_ when I pulled at it. If I'd been even a minute later..."

"Well, you weren't."

I sigh. There's no point getting into an argument. Sam's alive. I'm alive. Nobody's suffered any permanent injury. With the lives we lead, I'm willing to settle for that.

"You should still have woken me. Being grown up doesn't mean you have to deal with everything on your own. I'm still your big brother." Sam looks exasperated, but he nods, so I let it go. "Anything you want to do today, Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm going to get breakfast."

He's back by the time I've finished brushing my teeth, carrying a bag of doughnuts (that's a good sign – doughnuts for breakfast instead of some health food junk means he's not brooding about anything) and two cups of espresso double-shots.

Maybe Sam had a bit too much eggnog, too.

He sits on his bed, hands me my coffee, and tosses me the bag of doughnuts after abstracting one for himself. I nearly shake my head... I mean, _one _doughnut? Who eats _one _doughnut? But, whatever, he's eating voluntarily and without giving me a fictional account of how he's not hungry, so I'll go with it.

I settle back on the bed and flick on the TV. I steal a sideways glance at Sam as I do so.

He was fine last night – he was almost perfectly normal last night, giving me grief about my upstairs brain (honestly, it was just _one_ waitress and I only _looked_), wanting me to talk about my feelings (don't ask), even making a bitchface when I pointed out that the cute redhead behind us in the supermarket checkout was totally checking out his ass.

Today he's a little – scared. Nervous. I can't imagine why, unless it's something to do with that nightmare he isn't telling me about.

"Want to go for a drive?" I ask him.

"Where?"

"Nowhere. Anywhere. How long has it been since we had a break, Sam? Let's just get out and _drive_."

"We paid for the week."

"We'll be back for dinner. Come _on_, Sam!"

Sam shrugs, nods and chews. I watch him for a moment. I've downed four doughnuts and finished my coffee, but Sam's still only about two-thirds of the way through the single doughnut he took. Did I mention that it was smaller than all the others?

"Finish your breakfast," I order. "I'll bring the Impala around to the door." Sam gives me an _I'm-not-an-invalid_ look, but it quickly melts away into nervousness again when I grab my jacket. I can't help staring at him. "What, Sam?"

"Nothing," he mumbles, flushing and ducking his head.

As I pull on my jacket, I'm debating whether or not to press the issue. On the one hand, Sam's not shying away from me, not shutting himself off, and other than the slight nervousness he seems just fine. On the other hand... my baby brother's scared of something.

Maybe he'll settle down on the drive.

I button my jacket, frowning as I notice an unusual stiffness in the leather.

"You do something to my jacket, Sam?"

"I had it drycleaned."

"Oh." I sniff at the sleeve, smelling the faint whiff of kerosene. Is this Sam's idea of a Christmas present? I know we've come up with some weird stuff, but... "Why?"

"It was filthy."

I can't deny the truth of that. I never wore the jacket at Lisa's – it reminded me too much of Sam – and I've not had it cleaned since Sam came back, so there was years' worth of dirt on it.

"Oh... Well, thanks."

Sam nods, and now he looks terrified, like a kid on report card day. (Well, like _other_ kids on report card day. The lowest grade Sam ever got was a B+, so he never had anything to be scared about.)

I leave the room, shutting the door behind me, and walk to where I left the Impala parked yesterday afternoon. It's as far away from us as possible, standing in front of an unoccupied room, because if there _is _something looking for us there's no need to make things easier for it.

The cold wind hits me the second I step outdoors. I shove my hands in my jacket pockets, keeping my fingers warm...

There's paper in my right pocket.

I roll my eyes. Is this Sam's idea of a prank? _Paper _in my pocket? Pathetic. The kid could at least have tried itching powder.

I pull it out, and it's surprisingly heavy.

My heart's suddenly thumping so loudly I can almost hear it. It isn't – it _can't_ be – I don't even deserve it –

I unroll the paper in the palm of my hand, and in the middle is my amulet – yeah, now it's _my _amulet again, and I can't stop myself from grinning like an idiot – still strung through its leather cord, which is carefully wrapped around it.

_Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you._

My fingers are trembling as I pick it up, trembling as I hold it up to my eyes to make sure it's real. Then I'm seized by a sudden, irrational fear that Sam's going to change his mind and ask for it back – or, worse, that it got in there by _accident_ or something – so I slip it over my neck. Maybe Sam won't change his mind if I'm actually wearing it.

My hands are shaking too much for me to drive, so I sit down on the curb next to the Impala, huddling into my jacket for warmth, my breath fogging in the December air.

I don't realize I'm not alone until a pair of boots appears in my field of vision. A moment later, Sam's lowering himself down next to me. He looks big even hunched up like this.

"You OK?"

I don't know the answer to that. _Am _I OK? I mean, yeah, I'm feeling warmer than I have in days, and I'm pretty sure that has nothing to do with the fact that Sam's chosen his spot so that he's shielding me from the worst of the wind.

Or maybe it has everything to do with that. We're Winchesters, after all.

I want to tug Sam's head down onto my shoulder like I did when he was three and there was no other way to get him to sleep. I want to cry with relief because it's finally over, years of mistrust and confrontation and fear are finally over and we have a second chance and this time we're going to _do it right_. I want to sidle closer to Sam and see if he reels me in for a hug, because right now for some reason I want to be comforted and Sam's as warm and big and gentle as a St Bernard.

Of course, because we're in a motel parking lot and the landlord already thinks we're gay, I don't do any of that. I just toss Sam the car keys.

"You're driving."

* * *

The End

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